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BY    THE   SAME   AUTHOR. 


Adopting  an  Abandoned  Farm. 

i6mo.     Boards,  50  cents. 

"'Adopting  an  Abandoned  Farm'  has  as  much  laugh  to 
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beside  the  immortal  Sam  Slick,  and  has  made  Gooseville,  Con 
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A   Truthful   Woman    in    Southern 

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"  Miss  Sanborn  is  certainly  a  very  bright  writer,  and  when  a 
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Journal.  

New  York:  D.  APPLETON  &  CO.,  72  Fifth  Avenue. 


Hn  Hbanboneb  jfarm 


BY 
KATE    SANBORN 

AUTHOR  OF 

WIT  OF  WOMEN,   HOME   PICTURES   OF  ENGLISH   POETS, 

SANITY  AND  INSANITY,   SHADOWS  OF  GENIUS, 

SUNSHINE  AND  RAINBOW  CALENDARS, 

ETC. 


NEW    YORK 
D.    APPLETON    AND    COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,  1891, 
BY  D.   APPLETON  AND  COMPANY. 


PSi-76 

A7 


CONTENTS. 


I.— FROM  GOTHAM  TO  GOOSEVILLE       .  5 

II.— AUCTIONS 15 

III. — BUYING  A  HORSE       ....  34 

IV. — FOR  THOSE  WHO   LOVE   PETS      .           .  48 

V. — STARTING  A  POULTRY  FARM     .        .  62 

VI. — GHOSTS 78 

VII. — DAILY  DISTRACTIONS         ...  96 
VIII.— THE  PROSE  OF  NEW  ENGLAND  FARM 

LIFE 108 

IX. — THE  PASSING  OF  THE  PEACOCKS      .  127 

X. — LOOKING  BACK 154 


218860 


An  old  farm-house  with  meadows  wide, 
And  sweet  with  clover  on  each  side. 

MARION  DOUGLASS. 


ADOPTING 
AN  ABANDONED  FARM. 


CHAPTER   I. 

FROM    GOTHAM    TO    GOOSEVILLE. 

I  have  now  come  to  the  fanner's  life,  with  which 
I  am  exceedingly  delighted,  and  which  seems  to  me 
to  belong  especially  to  the  life  of  a  wise  man. 

CICERO. 

WEARY  of  boarding  at  seashore  and 
mountain,  tired  of  traveling  in  search  of 
comfort,  hating  hotel  life,  I  visited  a  coun 
try  friend  at  Gooseville,  Conn,  (an  as 
sumed  name  for  Foxboro,  Mass.),  and 
passed  three  happy  weeks  in  her  peace 
ful  home. 

Far  away  at  last  from  the  garish  hor 
rors  of  dress,  formal  dinners,  visits,  and 
drives,  the  inevitable  and  demoralizing 
gossip  and  scandal ;  far  away  from  hotel 


an  Qlbanboneb  -farm. 


piazzas,  with  their  tedious  accompani 
ments  of  corpulent  dowagers,  exclusive 
or  inquisitive,  slowly  dying  from  too 
much  food  and  too  little  exercise;  en- 
nuied  spinsters  ;  gushing  buds  ;  athletic 
collegians,  cigarettes  in  mouths  and 
hands  in  pockets;  languid,  drawling 
dudes  ;  old  bachelors,  fluttering  around 
the  fair  human  flower  like  September  but 
terflies  ;  fancy  work,  fancy  work,  like  Pe 
nelope's  web,  never  finished  ;  pug  dogs 
of  the  aged  and  asthmatic  variety.  Ev 
erything  there  but  MEN  —  they  are  wise 
enough  to  keep  far  away. 

Before  leaving  this  haven  of  rest,  I 
heard  that  the  old-fashioned  farm-house 
just  opposite  was  for  sale.  And,  as  pur 
chasers  of  real  estate  were  infrequent  at 
Gooseville,  it  would  be  rented  for  forty 
dollars  a  year  to  any  responsible  tenant 
who  would  "  keep  it  up." 

After  examining  the  house  from  garret 
to  cellar  and  looking  over  the  fields  with 


from  <0>otl)am  to  (Stoosemlle.       7 

a  critical  eye,  I  telegraphed  to  the  owner, 
fearful  of  losing  such  a  prize,  that  I 
would  take  it  for  three  years.  For  it 
captivated  me.  The  cosy  "  settin'-room," 
with  a  "  pie  closet  "  and  an  upper  tiny 
cupboard  known  as  a  "  rum  closet "  and 
its  pretty  fire  place — bricked  up,  but  ca 
pable  of  being  rescued  from  such  prosaic 
"desuetude";  a  large  sunny  dining-room, 
with  a  brick  oven,  an  oven  suggestive 
of  brown  bread  and  baked  beans — yes, 
the  baked  beans  of  my  childhood,  that 
adorned  the  breakfast  table  on  a  Sunday 
morning,  cooked  with  just  a  little  molas 
ses  and  a  square  piece  of  crisp  salt  pork 
in  center,  a  dish  to  tempt  a  dying  an 
chorite. 

There  wore  two  broad  landings  on  the 
stairs,  the  lower  one  just  the  place  for  an 
old  clock  to  tick  out  its  impressive  "  For 
ever —  Never  —  Never  —  Forever"  a  la 
Longfellow.  Then  the  long  "  shed  cham 
ber  "  with  a  wide  swinging  door  opening 


8     QUroptittg  an  Qlbaufcottefc 


to  the  west,  framing  a  sunset  gorgeous 
enough  to  inspire  a  mummy.  And  the 
attic,  with  its  possible  treasures. 

There  was  also  a  queer  little  room,  dark 
and  mysterious,  in  the  center  of  house  on 
the  ground  floor,  without  even  one  win 
dow,  convenient  to  retire  to  during  severe 
thunder  storms  or  to  evade  a  personal  in 
terview  with  a  burglar;  just  the  place, 
too,  for  a  restless  ghost  to  revisit. 

Best  of  all,  every  room  was  blessed 
with  two  closets. 

Outside,  what  rare  attractions  !  Twen 
ty-five  acres  of  arable  land,  stretching  to 
the  south  ;  a  grand  old  barn,  with  dusty, 
cobwebbed,  hay-filled  lofts,  stalls  for  two 
horses  and  five  cows  ;  hen  houses,  with 
plenty  of  room  to  carry  out  a  long-cher 
ished  plan  of  starting  a  poultry  farm. 

The  situation,  too,  was  exceptional, 
since  the  station  from  which  I  could  take 
trains  direct  to  Boston  and  New  York 
almost  touched  the  northern  corner  of  the 


from  (Bkrtljam  ta  <B>00semlle.       9 

farm,  and  nothing  makes  one  so  willing 
to  stay  in  a  secluded  spot  as  the  certain 
ty  that  he  or  she  can  leave  it  at  any  time 
and  plunge  directly  into  the  excitements 
and  pleasures  which  only  a  large  city 
gives. 

What  charmed  me  most  of  all  was  a 
tiny  but  fascinating  lakelet  in  the  pasture 
near  the  house ;  a  "  spring-hole  "  it  was 
called  by  the  natives,  but  a  lakelet  it  was 
to  me,  full  of  the  most  entrancing  possi 
bilities.  It  could  be  easily  enlarged  at 
once,  and  by  putting  a  wind-mill  on  the 
hill,  by  the  deep  pool  in  "  Chicken 
Brook  "  where  the  pickerel  loved  to  sport, 
and  damming  something,  somewhere, 
I  could  create  or  evolve  a  miniature  j 
pond,  transplant  water  lilies,  pink  and  I 
white,  set  willow  shoots  around  the  well- 
turfed,  graveled  edge,  with  roots  of  the 
forget-me-not  hiding  under  the  banks 
their  blue  blossoms ;  just  the  flower  for 
happy  lovers  to  gather  as  they  lingered 


io    Slbopting  an  Qtbanfconefc  farm. 

in  their  rambles  to  feed  my  trout.  And 
there  should  be  an  arbor,  vine-clad  and 
sheltered  from  the  curious  gaze  of  the 
passers-by,  and  a  little  boat,  moored  at  a 
little  wharf,  and  a  plank  walk  leading  up 
to  the  house.  And — and  oh,  the  idealism 
possible  when  an  enthusiastic  woman  first 
rents  a  farm — an  "  abandoned  "  farm  ! 

It  may  be  more  exact  to  say  that  my 
farm  was  not  exactly  "  abandoned,"  as  its 
owner  desired  a  tenant  and  paid  the 
taxes;  say  rather  depressed,  full  of  evil 
from  long  neglect,  suffering  from  lack  of 
food  and  general  debility. 

As  "  abandoned  farms  "  are  now  a  sub 
ject  of  general  interest,  let  me  say  that 
my  find  was  nothing  unusual.  The  num 
ber  of  farms  without  occupants  in  New 
Hampshire  in  August,  1889,  was  1,342  and 
in  Maine  3,318;  and  I  saw  lately  a  farm 
of  twenty  acres  advertised  "  free  rent  and 
a  present  of  fifty  dollars." 

But  it  is  my  farm   I  want  you  to  care 


from  Qcotljatn  to  (&>oo0emlle.      n 

about.  I  could  hardly  wait  until  winter 
was  over  to  begin  my  new  avocation. 
By  the  last  of  March  I  was  assured  byj 
practical  agriculturists  (who  regarded  me 
with  amusement  tempered  with  pity)  that' 
it  was  high  time  to  prune  the  lazy  fruit 
trees  and  arouse,  if  possible,  the  debili 
tated  soil — in  short,  begin  to  "  keep  it  up." 

So  I  left  New  York  for  the  scene  of 
my  future  labors  and  novel  lessons  in 
life,  accompanied  by  a  German  girl  who 
proved  to  be  merely  an  animated  onion  in 
matters  of  cooking,  a  half-breed  hired 
man,  and  a  full-bred  setter  pup  who  suf 
fered  severely  from  nostalgia  and  strong 
ly  objected  to  the  baggage  car  and  sepa 
ration  from  his  playmates. 

If  wit  is,  as  has  been  averred,  the  "  jux 
taposition  of  dissimilar  ideas,"  then  from 
"  Gotham  to  Gooseville  "  is  the  most  scin 
tillating  epigram  ever  achieved.  Nothing 
was  going  on  at  Gooseville  except  time 
and  the  milk  wagon  collecting  for  the 


12    Qtbopting  an  QUjanbanefc  farm. 

creamery.  The  latter  came  rumbling 
along  every  morning  at  4.30  precisely, 
with  a  clatter  of  cans  that  never  failed 
to  arouse  the  soundest  sleeper. 

The  general  dreariness  of  the  land 
scape  was  depressing.  Nature  herself 
seemed  in  a  lethargic  trance,  and  her 
name  was  mud. 

But  with  a  house  to  furnish  and  twen 
ty-five  enfeebled  acres  to  resuscitate,  one 
must  not  mind.  Advanced  scientists  as 
sure  us  of  life,  motion,  even  intelligence, 
appetite,  and  affection  in  the  most  primi 
tive  primordial  atoms.  So,  after  a  little 
study,  I  found  that  the  inhabitants  of 
Gooseville  and  its  outlying  hamlets  were 
neither  dead  nor  sleeping.  It  was  only 
by  contrast  that  they  appeared  comatose 
and  moribund. 

Indeed,  the  degree  of  gayety  was  quite 
startling.  I  was  at  once  invited  to 
"  gatherings  "  which  rejoiced  in  the  para 
doxical  title  of  "  Mum  Sociables,"  where 


from  <fi>0tl)am  to  (Etooeemlle.      13 

a  penalty  of  five  cents  was  imposed  on 
each  person  for  speaking -(the  revenue  to 
go  toward  buying  a  new  hearse,  a  cheer 
ful  object  of  benevolence),  and  the  occa 
sions  were  most  enjoyable.  There  was 
also  a  "  crazy  party  "  at  Way-back,  the 
next  village.  This  special  form  of  lunacy 
I  did  not  indulge  in — farming  was  enough 
for  me — but  the  painter  who  was  enliven 
ing  my  dining-room  with  a  coating  of 
vivid  red  and  green,  kindly  told  me  all 
about  it,  how  much  I  missed,  and  how  the 
couple  looked  who  took  the  first  prize. 
The  lady  wore  tin  plates,  tin  cans,  tin 
spoons,  etc.,  sewed  on  to  skirt  and  waist  in 
fantastic  patterns,  making  music  as  she 
walked,  and  on  her  head  a  battered  old 
coffee  pot,  with  artificial  flowers  which 
had  outlived  their  usefulness  sticking  out 
of  the  spout ;  and  her  winning  partner  was 
arrayed  in  rag  patchwork  of  the  most 
demented  variety. 
"  Youdorter  gone  "  said  he  ;  "  'twas  a 


14    &bcrptittg  an  Qlbanboneb  farm. 

great  show.  But  I  bet  youder  beaten  the 
hull  lot  on  'em  if  you'd  set  your  mind 
on't!" 

My  walls  were  now  covered  with  old- 
fashioned  papers,  five  and  ten  cents  a  roll, 
and  cheap  matting  improved  the  floors. 
But  how  to  furnish  eleven  rooms?  This 
brings  me  to — 


CHAPTER   II. 

AUCTIONS. 
"  Going,  going,  gone." 

NEXT  came  the  excitement  of  auc 
tions,  great  occasions,  and  of  vital  impor 
tance  to  me,  as  I  was  ambitious  to  fur 
nish  the  entire  house  for  one  hundred 
dollars  \ 

When  the  head  of  a  family  dies  a  set 
tlement  of  the  estate  seems  to  make  an 
auction  necessary  I  am  glad  of  the  cus 
tom  It  proved  of  invaluable  service  to 
me,  and  the  mortality  among  old  people 
was  quite  phenomenal  at  Gooseville  and 
thereabouts  last  year  While  1  deeply  re 
gretted  the  demise  ot  each  and  all  still 
this  general  taking  off  was  opportune  for 
my  needs. 

There    were    seventeen    auctions   last 


16    &b0)tin    an  &banboneb  ,farm. 


season,  and  all  but   two  were  attended  by 
me  or  my  representatives. 

A  country  auction  is  not  so  exciting 
as  one  in  the  city;  still  you  must  be  wide 
awake  and  cool,  or  you  will  be  fleeced. 
An  experienced  friend,  acquainted  with 
the  auctioneer,  piloted  me  through  my 
first  sale,  and  for  ten  dollars  I  bought 
enough  really  valuable  furniture  to  fill  a 
large  express  wagon  —  as  a  large  desk 
with  drawers,  little  and  big,  fascinating 
pigeon  holes,  and  a  secret  drawer,  for  two 
dollars  ;  queer  old  table,  ten  cents  ;  good 
solid  chairs,  nine  cents  each  ;  mahogany 
center-table,  one  dollar  and  sixteen  cents  ; 
and,  best  of  all,  a  tall  and  venerable  clock 
for  the  landing,  only  eight  dollars  !  Its 
"  innards  "  sadly  demoralized,  but  capable 
of  resuscitation,  the  weights  being  tin- 
cans  filled  with  sand  and  attached  by 
strong  twine  to  the  "works."  It  has  to 
be  wound  twice  daily,  and  when  the  hour 
hand  points  to  six  and  the  other  to  ten,  I 


Unctions.  17 


guess  that  it  is  about  quarter  past  two, 
and  in  five  minutes  I  hear  the  senile  time 
piece  strike  eleven ! 

The  scene  was  unique.  The  sale  had 
been  advertised  in  post-office  and  stores 
as  beginning  at  10  A.  M.,  but  at  eleven 
the  farmers  and  their  women  folks  were 
driving  toward  the  house.  A  dozen  old 
men,  chewing  tobacco  and  looking  wise, 
were  in  the  barn  yard  examining  the 
stock  to  be  sold,  the  carts  and  farming 
tools ;  a  flock  of  hens  were  also  to  be  dis 
posed  of,  at  forty  cents  each. 

On  such  occasions  the  families  from 
far  and  near  who  want  to  dispose  of  any 
old  truck  are  allowed  to  bring  it  to  add 
to  the  motley  display.  The  really  valu 
able  possessions,  if  any,  are  kept  back, 
either  for  private  sale  or  to  be  divided 
among  the  heirs.  I  saw  genuine  an 
tiques  occasionally — old  oak  chests,  fine 
ly  carved  oaken  chairs — but  these  were 
rare.  After  the  horses  have  been  driven 


1  8    &botin    an  &banbone&  ,£arttt. 


up  and  down  the  street,  and  with  the 
other  stock  disposed  of,  it  is  time  for 
lunch.  Following  the  crowd  into  the 
kitchen,  you  see  two  barrels  of  crackers 
open,  a  mammoth  cheese  of  the  skim- 
milk  species  with  a  big  knife  by  it,  and 
on  the  stove  a  giant  kettle  in  which  cot 
ton  bags  full  of  coffee  are  being  distilled 
in  boiling  water.  You  are  expected  to 
dip  a  heavy  white  mug  into  the  kettle  for 
your  share  of  the  fragrant  reviving  bev 
erage,  cut  off  a  hunk  of  cheese,  and  eat 
as  many  crackers  as  you  can.  It  tasted 
well,  that  informal  "  free  lunch." 

Finding  after  one  or  two  trials  that  the 
interested  parties  raised  rapidly  on  any 
thing  I  desired.  I  used  to  send  Gusta  and 
John,  nicknamed  very  properly  "  Omnis 
cience  and  Omnipotence,"  which  names 
did  equally  well  when  reversed  (like  a  pa 
per  cuff),  and  they,  less  verdant  than  their 
mistress,  would  return  with  an  amazing 
array  of  stuff.  We  now  have  everything 


factions.  19 


but  a  second-hand  pulpit,  a  wooden  leg, 
and  a  coffin  plate.  We  utilized  a  cra 
dle  and  antique  churn  as  a  composite 
flower  stand  ;  an  immense  spinning-wheel 
looks  pretty  covered  with  running  vines, 
an  old  carriage  lantern  gleams  brightly 
on  my  piazza  every  evening.  I  nearly 
bought  a  horse  for  fifteen  dollars,  and 
did  secure  a  wagon  for  one  dollar  and 
a  half,  which,  after  a  few  needed  repairs, 
costing  only  twenty-six  dollars,  was  my 
pride,  delight  and  comfort,  and  the  envy 
of  the  neighborhood.  Men  came  from 
near  and  far  to  examine  that  wagon,  felt 
critically  of  every  wheel,  admired  the 
shining  coat  of  dark-green  paint,  and 
would  always  wind  up  with:  "I  vum,  if 
that  'ere  wagon  ain't  fine !  Why,  it's 
wuth  fifty  dollars,  now,  ef  it's  wuth  a 
cent ! "  After  a  hard  day's  work,  it 
seemed  a  gratification  to  them  to  come 
with  lanterns  to  renew  their  critical  sur 
vey,  making  a  fine  Rembrandtish  study 


20    Stbopting  an  Qlbanboneb  .farm. 

as  they  stood  around  it  and  wondered. 
A  sleigh  was  bought  for  three  dollars 
which,  when  painted  by  our  home  artist, 
is  both  comfortable  and  effective. 

At  one  auction,  where  I  was  the  only 
woman  present,  I  bid  on  three  shovels 
(needed  to  dig  worms  for  my  prize  hens !) 
and,  as  the  excitement  increased  with  a 
rise  in  bids  from  two  cents  to  ten,  I  cried, 
"Eleven!"  And  the  gallant  old  fellow 
in  command  roared  out  as  a  man  opened 
his  mouth  for  "Twelve!":  "I  wouldn't 
bid  ag'in  a  woman  ef  Fse  you.  Let  'er 
have  'em!  Madam,  Mum,  or  Miss  —  I 
can't  pernounce  your  name  and  don't 
rightly  know  how  to  spell  it  —  but  the 
shovels  are  yourn  !  " 

Attending  auctions  may  be  an  acquired 
taste,  but  it  grows  on  one  like  any  other 
habit,  and  whenever  a  new  and  tempting 
announcement  calls,  I  rise  to  the  occasion 
and  hasten  to  the  scene  of  action,  be  the 
weather  what  it  may.  And  many  a  treas- 


Auctions.  21 


ure  has  been  picked  up  in  this  way. 
Quaint  old  mirrors  with  the  queerest  pict 
ures  above,  brass  knockers,  candlesticks 
of  queer  patterns,  cups  and  saucers  and 
plates,  mugs  of  all  sizes,  from  one  gen 
erous  enough  to  satisfy  the  capacities  of 
a  lager-soaked  Dutchman  to  a  dear  little 
child's  mug,  evidently  once  belonging  to  a 
series.  Mine  was  for  March.  A  mother 
sitting  on  a  bench,  with  a  bowl  of  possi 
bly  Lenten  soup  by  her  side,  is  reproving 
a  fat  little  fellow  for  his  gross  appetite 
at  this  solemn  season.  He  is  weeping, 
and  on  her  other  side  a  pet  dog  is  plead 
ing  to  be  fed.  The  rhyme  explains  the 
reason  : 

The  jovial  days  of  feasting  past, 
'Tis  pious  prudence  come  at  last ; 
And  eager  gluttony  is  taught 
To  be  content  with  what  it  ought. 

A  warming  pan  and  a  foot  stove,  just  as 
it  was  brought  home  from  a  merry  sleigh- 
ride,  or  a  solemn  hour  at  the  "  meetin'- 


22    QU> opting  an  Qlbanboneb  ^Tartn. 

house,"   recalling   that    line   of    Thomas 
Gray's : 

E'en  in  our  ashes  live  their  wonted  fires. 

Sometimes  I  would  offer  a  little  more 
to  gain  some  coveted  treasure  already 
bid  off.  How  a  city  friend  enjoyed  the 
confidences  of  a  man  who  had  agreed  to 
sell  for  a  profit !  How  he  chuckled  as 
he  told  of  "  one  of  them  women  who  he 
guessed  was  a  leetle  crazy."  "  Why,  jest 
think  on't!  I  only  paid  ten  cents  for 
that  hull  lot  on  the  table  yonder,  and 
she"  (pointing  to  me)  "she  gin  me  a 
quarter  for  that  old  pair  o*  tongs !  " 

One  day  I  heard  some  comments  on 
myself  after  I  had  bid  on  a  rag  carpet 
and  offered  more  than  the  other  women 
knew  it  was  worth. 

"  She's  got  a  million,  I  hear." 
^    4:  •       "  Wanter  know — merried  ?  " 

"  No  ;  just  an  old  maid." 

"  Judas  Priest !     Howd  she  git  it  ?  " 


Qitutions.  23 


"  Writin',  I  'spoze.  She  writes  love 
stories  and  sich  for  city  papers.  Some 
on  'em  makes  a  lot." 

It  is  not  always  cheering  to  overhear 
too  much.  When  some  of  my  friends, 
whom  I  had  taken  to  a  favorite  junk 
shop,  felt  after  two  hours  of  purchase 
and  exploration  that  they  must  not  keep 
me  waiting  any  longer,  the  man,  in  his 
eagerness  to  make  a  few  more  sales,  ex 
claimed  :  "  Let  her  wait ;  her  time  ain't 
wuth  nothin' ! " 

At  an  auction  last  summer,  one  man 
told  me  of  a  very  venerable  lantern,  an 
heirloom  in  his  first  wife's  family,  so  long, 
measuring  nearly  a  yard  with  his  hands. 
I  said  I  should  like  to  go  with  him  to  see 
it,  as  I  was  making  a  collection  of  lan 
terns.  He  looked  rather  dazed,  and  as  I 
turned  away  he  inquired  of  my  friend  "  if 
I  wusn't  rather — "  She  never  allowed 
him  to  finish,  and  his  lantern  is  now 
mine. 


24    Qlbopting  an  Qtbanboneb  farm. 

People  seem  to  have  but  little  senti 
ment  about  their  associations  with  furni 
ture  long  in  the  family. 

The  family  and  a  few  intimate  friends 
usually  sit  at  the  upper  windows  gazing 
|  curiously  on  the  crowd,  with  no  evidence 
\  of  feeling  or  pathetic  recollections. 

I  lately  heard  a  daughter  say  less  than 
a  month  after  her  father's  death,  point 
ing  to  a  small  cretonne-covered  lounge : 
"  Father  made  me  that  lounge  with  his 
own  hands  when  I's  a  little  girl.  He 
tho't  a  sight  on't  it,  and  allers  kep'  it 
'round.  But  my  house  is  full  now.  I 
ain't  got  no  room  for't."  It  sold  for 
twelve  cents ! 

Arthur  Helps  says  that  human  nature 
craves,  nay  enjoys,  tragedy;  and  when 
away  from  dramatic  representation  of 
crime  and  horrors  and  sudden  death,  as 
in  this  quiet  country  life,  the  people  grat 
ify  their  needs  in  the  sorrows,  sins,  and 
calamities  that  befall  their  neighbors. 


Qtticticma.  25 


I  strongly  incline  to  Hawthorne's  idea 
that  furniture  becomes  magnetized,  per 
meated,  semi-vitalized,  so  that  the  chairs, 
sofas,  and  tables  that  have  outlived  their 
dear  owners  in  my  own  family  have  al 
most  a  sacred  value  to  me. 

Still,  why  moralize.  Estates  must  be 
settled,  and  auctions  are  a  blessing  in  dis 
guise. 

Of  course,  buying  so  much  by  substi 
tutes,  I  amassed  a  lot  of  curious  things, 
of  which  I  did  not  know  the  use  or  value, 
and  therefore  greatly  enjoyed  the  experi 
ence  of  the  Spectator  as  given  in  the 
Christian  Union. 

He  attended  an  auction  with  the  fol 
lowing  result :  "  A  long  table  was  cov 
ered  with  china,  earthenware,  and  glass ; 
and  the  mantel  beyond,  a  narrow  shelf 
quite  near  the  ceiling,  glittered  with  a 
tangled  maze  of  clean  brass  candlesticks, 
steel  snuffers,  and  plated  trays.  At  one 
end  dangled  a  huge  warming  pan,  and  on 


2(5    Qutin    an  QUjanboneb  farm. 


the  wall  near  it  hung  a  bit  of  canvas  in  a 
gilded  frame,  from  which  the  portrait 
had  as  utterly  faded  as  he  whom  it  repre 
sented  had  vanished  into  thin  air.  It 
was  a  strange  place,  a  room  from  which 
many  a  colonial  citizen  had  passed  to 
take  a  stroll  upon  the  village  street  ;  and 
here,  in  sad  confusion  to  be  sure,  the 
dishes  that  graced  his  breakfast  table. 
The  Spectator  could  have  lingered  there 
if  alone  for  half  a  day,  but  not  willingly 
for  half  an  hour  in  such  a  crowd.  The 
crowd,  however,  closed  every  exit  and  he 
had  to  submit.  A  possible  chance  to  se 
cure  some  odd  bit  was  his  only  consola 
tion.  Why  the  good  old  soul  who  last 
occupied  the  house,  and  who  was  born  in 
it  fourscore  years  ago,  should  necessarily 
have  had  only  her  grandmother's  table 
ware,  why  every  generation  of  this  fami 
ly  should  have  suffered  no  losses  by 
breakage,  was  not  asked.  Every  bit, 
even  to  baking-powder  prizes  of  green 


Auctions.  27 


and  greasy  glass,  antedated  the  Revolu 
tion,  and  the  wise  and  mighty  of  Small 
town  knew  no  better.  A  bit  of  egg  shell 
sticking  to  a  cracked  teacup  was  stolen 
as  a  relic  of  Washington's  last  breakfast 
in  Smalltown. 

"  While  willow-pattern  china  was  pass 
ing  into  other  hands  the  Spectator  made 
a  discovery.  A  curious  piece  of  polished, 
crooked  mahogany  was  seen  lying  be 
tween  soup  tureens  and  gravy  boats. 
He  picked  it  up  cautiously,  fearing  to  at 
tract  attention,  and,  with  one  eye  every 
where  else,  scanned  it  closely.  What  a 
curious  paper-knife !  he  thought,  and  sly 
ly  tucked  it  back  of  a  pile  of  plates. 
This  must  be  kept  track  of ;  it  may  prove 
a  veritable  prize.  But  all  his  care  went 
for  naught.  A  curious  old  lady  at  his 
elbow  had  seen  every  action.  '  What  is 
it  ? '  she  asked,  and  the  woode  i  wonder 
was  brought  to  light.  '  It's  an  old-fash- 


28    Stbopting  an  Qtbanbonefc  farm. 

ioned  wooden  butter  knife.  I've  seen 
'em  'afore  this.  Don't  you  know  in  old 
times  it  wasn't  everybody  as  had  silver, 
and  mahogany  knives  for  butter  was 
put  on  the  table  for  big  folks.  We  folks 
each  used  our  own  knife.'  All  this  was 
dribbled  into  the  Spectator's  willing  ears, 
and  have  the  relic  he  would  at  any  cost. 
Time  and  again  he  nervously  turned  it 
over  to  be  sure  that  it  was  on  the  table, 
and  so  excited  another's  curiosity.  *  What 
is  it  ? '  a  second  and  still  older  lady  asked. 
'A  colonial  butter  knife,'  the  Spectator 
replied  with  an  air  of  much  antiquarian 
lore.  '  A  butter  knife !  No  such  thing. 
My  grandfather  had  one  just  like  this, 
and  it's  a  pruning  knife.  He  wouldn't 
use  a  steel  knife  because  it  poisoned  the 
sap.'  What  next  ?  Paper  knife,  butter 
knife,  and  pruning  knife !  At  all  events 
every  new  name  added  a  dollar  to  its 
value,  and  the  Spectator  wondered  what 
the  crowd  would  say,  for  now  it  was  in 


Auctions.  29 


the  auctioneer's  hands.  He  looked  at  it 
with  a  puzzled  expression  and  merely 
cried  :  *  What  is  bid  for  this  ?  '  His  ig 
norance  was  encouraging.  It  started  at 
a  dime  and  the  Spectator  secured  it  for 
a  quarter.  For  a  moment  he  little  won 
dered  at  the  fascination  of  public  sales. 
The  past  was  forgiven,  for  now  luck  had 
turned  and  he  gloried  in  the  possession 
of  a  prize. 

"  To  seek  the  outer  world  was  a  peril 
ous  undertaking  for  fear  that  the  triply- 
named  knife  might  come  to  grief;  but  a 
snug  harbor  was  reached  at  last,  and  hug 
ging  the  precious  bit,  the  Spectator  myste 
riously  disappeared  on  reaching  his  home. 
No  one  must  know  of  his  success  until 
the  mystery  was  cleaned,  brightened,  and 
restored  to  pristine  beauty.  The  Specta 
tor  rubbed  the  gummy  surface  with  kero 
sene,  and  then  polished  it  with  flannel. 
Then  warm  water  and  a  tooth  brush  were 


30    Qlbopting  an  Qlbanbaneb  farm. 

brought  into  play,  and  the  oil  all  re 
moved.  Then  a  long  dry  polishing,  and 
the  restoration  was  complete.  Certainly 
no  other  Smalltowner  had  such  a  wooden 
knife;  and  it  was  indeed  beautiful.  Black 
in  a  cross  light,  red  in  direct  light,  and 
kaleidoscopic  by  gaslight.  Ah,  such  a 
prize !  The  family  knew  that  something 
strange  was  transpiring,  but  what  no  one 
had  an  inkling.  They  must  wait  patiently, 
and  they  did.  The  Spectator  proudly  ap 
peared,  his  prize  in  hand.  '  See  there  ! ' 
he  cried  in  triumph,  and  they  all  looked 
eagerly ;  and  when  the  Spectator's  pride 
was  soaring  at  its  highest,  a  younger 
daughter  cried,  'Why,  papa,  it's  the  back 
of  a  hair-brush  ! '  And  it  was." 

An  auctioneer  usually  tries  to  be  off 
hand,  waggish,  and  brisk — a  cross  between 
a  street  peddler  and  a  circus  clown,  with  a 
hint  of  the  forced  mirth  of  the  after-din 
ner  speaker.  Occasionally  the  jokes  are 


Qtttcti0n0.  31 


good  and  the  answers  from  the  audience 
show  the  ready  Yankee  wit. 

Once  an  exceedingly  fat  man,  too  obese 
to  descend  from  his  high  wagon,  bought 
an  immense  dinner  bell  and  he  was  hit 
unmercifully.  A  rusty  old  fly-catcher 
elicited  many  remarks — as  "  no  flies  on 
that."  I  bought  several  chests,  half  full 
of  rubbish,  but  found,  alas!  no  hidden 
treasure,  no  missing  jewels,  no  money  hid 
away  by  miserly  fingers  and  forgotten. 
Jake  Corey,  who  was  doing  some  work 
for  me,  encouraged  me  to  hope.  He 
said :  "  I  hear  ye  patronize  auctions  putty 
reg'lar;  sometimes  there  is  a  good  deal 
to  be  made  that  way,  and  then  ag'in  there 
isn't.  I  never  had  no  luck  that  way,  but 
it's  like  getting  married,  it's  a  lottery! 
Folks  git  queer  and  put  money  in  some 
spot,  where  they're  apt  to  forgit  all  about 
it.  Now  I  knew  a  man  who  bought  an 
old  hat  and  a  sight  of  other  stuff ;  jest 
threw  in  the  hat.  And  when  he  got 

3 
1 


32    St&opting  an  Qiban&0tie& 


home  and  come  to  examine  it  ef  thar 
warn't  three  hundred  dollars  in  good  bills, 
chucked  in  under  the  sweater  !  " 

"  You  ought  to  git  over  to  Mason's  auc 
tion  to  Milldon,  sure.  It's  day  after  to 
morrow  at  nine  sharp.  You  see  he'd  a  for 
tune  left  him,  but  he  run  straight  through 
it  buying  the  goldarndest  things  you  ever 
heerd  tell  on  —  calves  with  six  legs,  dogs 
with  three  eyes  or  two  tails,  steers  that 
could  be  druv  most  as  well  as  hosses 
(Barnum  he  got  hold  o'  'em  and  tuk  'em 
round  with  his  show)  ;  all  sorts  o'  curious 
fowl  and  every  outlandish  critter  he  could 
lay  his  hands  on.  'T  stands  to  reason  he 
couldn't  run  that  rig  many  years.  Your 
goin's  on  here  made  me  think  o'  Mason. 
He  cut  a  wide  swath  for  a  time. 

"  Wall,  I  hope  you'll  come  off  better'n 
he  did.  He  sunk  such  a  pile  that  he  got 
discouraged  and  took  to  drink  ;  then  his 
wife,  a  mighty  likely  woman  she  is  (one  o' 
the  Batchelders  of  Dull  Corner),  couldn't 


Qttuti0n0.  33 


stand  it  and  went  back  to  her  old  home, 
and  he  died  ragged  and  friendless  about 
a  month  ago.  Ef  I's  you,  I'd  go  over, 
just  to  take  warning  and  hold  up  in 
time." 


CHAPTER  III. 

BUYING    A    HORSE. 

"And  you  know  this  Deacon  Elkins  to  be  a 
thoroughly  reliable  man  in  every  respect  ?  " 

"  Indeed,  I  do,"  said  honest  Nathan  Robbins. 
"  He  is  the  very  soul  of  honor  ;  couldn't  do  a  mean 
thing.  I'd  trust  him  with  all  I  have." 

"  Well,  I'm  glad  to  hear  this,  for  I'm  just  going  to 
buy  a  horse  of  him." 

"Ahorse?" 

"  Yes — a  horse  ! " 

"  Then  I  don't  know  anything  about  him  !  " 

A  TRUE  TALE. 

AFTER  furnishing  my  house  in  the  afore 
said  economical  and  nondescript  fashion, 
came  the  trials  of  "planting  time."  This 
was  such  an  unfragrant  and  expensive 
period  that  I  pass  over  it  as  briefly  as 
possible.  I  saw  it  was  necessary  in  con 
formity  with  the  appalling  situation  to 
alter  one  vowel  in  my  Manorial  Hall. 
The  haul  altogether  amounted  to  eight- 


Btiging  a  4§0r0e.  35 

een  loads  besides  a  hundred  bags  of  vile 
ly  smelling  fertilizers.  Agents  for  every 
kind  of  phosphates  crowded  around  me, 
descanting  on  the  needs  of  the  old  land, 
until  I  began  to  comprehend  what  the 
owner  meant  by  "  keeping  it  up."  With 
Gail  Hamilton,  I  had  supposed  the  entire 
land  of  this  earth  to  be  pretty  much 
the  same  age  until  I  adopted  the  "  aban 
doned."  This  I  found  was  fairly  senile 
in  its  worthless  decrepitude. 

My  expenditure  was  something  prodig 
ious. 

Yes,  "  planting  time "  was  a  night 
mare  in  broad  daylight,  but  as  I  look 
back,  it  seems  a  rosy  dream,  compared 
with  the  prolonged  agonies  of  buying  a 
horse ! 

All  my  friends  said  I  must  have  a 
horse  to  truly  enjoy  the  country,  and  it 
seemed  a  simple  matter  to  procure  an 
animal  for  my  own  use. 

Livery-stable  keepers,  complaisant  and 


36    Sibojjtittg  an  &banbonefc  -farm. 


cordial,  were  continually  driving  around 
the  corner  into  my  yard,  with  a  tremen 
dous  flourish  and  style,  chirking  up  old 
by-gones,  drawing  newly  painted  buggies, 
patched-up  phaetons,  two-seated  second 
hand  "  Democrats,"  high  wagons,  low 
chaises,  just  for  me  to  try.  They  all  said 
that  seeing  I  was  a  lady  and  had  just 
come  among  'em,  they  would  trade  easy 
and  treat  me  well.  Each  mentioned  the 
real  value,  and  a  much  lower  price,  at 
which  I,  as  a  special  favor,  could  secure 
the  entire  rig.  Their  prices  were  all 
abominably  exorbitant,  so  I  decided  to 
hire  for  a  season.  The  dozen  beasts  tried 
in  two  months,  if  placed  in  a  row,  would 
cure  the  worst  case  of  melancholia. 
Some  shied ;  others  were  liable  to  be 
overcome  by  "  blind  staggers  ";  three  had 
the  epizootic  badly,  and  longed  to  lie 
down ;  one  was  nearly  blind.  At  last  I 
was  told  of  a  lady  who  desired  to  leave 
her  pet  horse  and  Sargent  buggy  in  some 


String  a  tyorze.  37 

country  home  during  her  three  months' 
trip  abroad. 

Both  were  so  highly  praised  as  just  the 
thing  that  I  took  them  on  faith. 

I  judge  that  a  woman  can  lie  worse 
than  a  man  about  a  horse ! 

"  You  will  love  my  Nellie  "  she  wrote. 
"I  hate  to  part  with  her,  even  for  the 
summer.  She  has  been  a  famous  racer  in 
Canada — can  travel  easily  twenty-five 
miles  a  day.  Will  go  better  at  the  end  of 
the  journey  than  at  the  beginning.  I 
hear  you  are  an  accomplished  driver,  so 
I  send  my  pet  to  your  care  without 
anxiety." 

I  sent  a  man  to  her  home  to  drive  out 
with  this  delightful  treasure,  and  pictured 
myself  taking  long  and  daily  drives  over 
our  excellent  country  roads.  Nellie, 
dear  Nellie;  I  loved  her  already.  How 
I  would  pet  her,  and  how  fond  she 
would  become  of  me.  Two  lumps  of  su 
gar  at  least,  every  day  for  her,  and  red 


38    St&ojjtittg  an  Qlbanftoneb  farm. 

ribbons  for  the  whip.  How  she  would 
dash  along !  A  horse  for  me  at  last ! 
About  1.45  A.  M.,  of  the  next  day,  a 
carriage  was  heard  slowly  entering  the 
yard.  I  could  hardly  wait  until  morning 
to  gloat  over  my  gentle  racer  !  At  early 
dawn  I  visited  the  stable  and  found  John 
disgusted  beyond  measure  with  my  bar 
gain.  A  worn-out,  tumble-down,  rickety 
carriage  with  wobbling  wheels,  and  an 
equally  worn-out,  thin,  dejected,  venera 
ble  animal,  with  an  immense  blood  spavin 
on  left  hind  leg,  recently  blistered !  It 
took  three  weeks  of  constant  doctoring, 
investment  in  Kendall's  Spavin  Cure,  and 
consultation  with  an  expensive  veterinary 
surgeon,  to  get  the  whilom  race  horse 
into  a  condition  to  slowly  walk  to  market. 
I  understood  now  the  force  of  the  one 
truthful  clause — "  She  will  go  better  at  the 
end  of  the  drive  than  at  the  beginning," 
for  it  was  well-nigh  impossible  to  get  her 
stiff  legs  started  without  a  fire  kindled 


a  ^orse.  39 


under  them  and  a  measure  of  oats  held 
enticingly  before  her.  It  was  enraging, 
but  nothing  to  after  experiences.  All  the 
disappointed  livery  men,  their  complai 
sance  and  cordiality,  wholly  a  thing  of 
the  past,  were  jubilant  that  I  had  been  so 
imposed  upon  by  some  one,  even  if  they 
had  failed.  And  their  looks,  as  they 
wheeled  rapidly  by  me,  as  I  crept  along 
with  the  poor,  suffering,  limping  "  Nellie," 
were  almost  more  than  I  could  endure. 

Horses  were  again  brought  for  inspec 
tion,  and  there  was  a  repetition  of  previ 
ous  horrors.  At  last  a  man  came  from 
Mossgrown.  He  had  an  honest  face  ;  he 
knew  of  a  man  who  knew  of  a  man  whose 
brother  had  just  the  horse  for  me,  "  sound, 
stylish,  kind,  gentle  as  a  lamb,  fast  as  the 
wind."  Profiting  by  experience,  I  said  I 
would  look  at  it.  Next  day,  a  young 
man,  gawky  and  seemingly  unsophisti 
cated,  brought  the  animal.  It  looked 
well  enough,  and  I  was  so  tired.  He  was 


40    &b0jjting  an  Qtbanftoneb  farm. 

anxious  to  sell,  but  only  because  he  was 
going  to  be  married  and  go  West ;  needed 
money.  And  he  said  with  sweet  simpli 
city  :  "  Now  I  ain't  no  jockey,  I  ain't ! 
You  needn't  be  afeard  of  me — I  say  just 
what  I  mean.  I  want  spot  cash,  I  do,  and 
you  can  have  horse,  carriage,  and  harness 
for  $125  down.  He  gave  me  a  short 
drive,  and  we  did  go  "  like  the  wind."  I 
thought  the  steed  very  hard  to  hold  in, 
but  he  convinced  me  that  it  was  not  so. 
I  decided  to  take  the  creature  a  week  on 
trial,  which  was  a  blow  to  that  guileless 
young  man.  And  that  very  afternoon  I 
started  for  the  long,  pleasant  drive  I  had 
been  dreaming  about  since  early  spring. 

The  horse  looked  quiet  enough,  but  I 
concluded  to  take  my  German  domestic 
along  for  extra  safety.  I  remembered  his 
drawling  direction,  "  Doan't  pull  up  the 
reins  unless  you  want  him  to  go  pretty 
lively,"  so  held  the  reins  rather  loosely 
for  a  moment  only,  for  this  last  hope 


Stirling  a  Hjorse.  41 

wheeled  round  the  corner  as  if  possessed, 
and  after  trotting,  then  breaking,  then 
darting  madly  from  side  to  side,  started 
into  a  full  run.  I  pulled  with  all  my 
might ;  Gusta  stood  up  and  helped.  No 
avail.  On  we  rushed  to  sudden  death. 
No  one  in  sight  anywhere.  With  one  Her 
culean  effort,  bred  of  the  wildest  despair, 
we  managed  to  rein  him  in  at  a  sharp  right 
angle,  and  we  succeeded  in  calming  his 
fury,  and  tied  the  panting,  trembling 
fiend  to  a  post.  Then  Gusta  mounted 
guard  while  I  walked  home  in  the  heat 
and  dirt,  fully  half  a  mile  to  summon 
John. 

I  learned  that  that  horse  had  never  be 
fore  been  driven  by  a  woman.  He  evi 
dently  was  not  pleased. 

Soon  the  following  appeared  among  the 
local  items  of  interest  in  the  Gooseville 
Clarion : 

Uriel  Snooks,  who  has  been  working  in  the 
cheese  factory  at  Frogville,  is  now  to  preside  over 


42    &b0pting  an  &banfccmeb  farm. 


chair  number  four  in  Baldwin's  Tonsorial  Estab 
lishment  on  Main  Street. 

Kate  Sanborn  is  trying  another  horse. 

These  bits  of  information  in  the  papers 
were  a  boon  to  the  various  reporters,  but 
most  annoying  to  me.  The  Bungtown 
Gazetteer  announced  that  "  a  well-known 
Boston  poetess  had  purchased  the  Britton 
Farm,  and  was  fitting  up  the  old  home 
stead  for  city  boarders  !  "  I  couldn't  im 
port  a  few  hens,  invest  in  a  new  dog,  or 
order  a  lawn  mower,  but  a  full  account 
would  grace  the  next  issue  of  all  the 
weeklies.  I  sympathized  with  the  old 
woman  who  exclaimed  in  desperation  : 

"  Great  Jerusalem,  ca'nt  I  stir, 
Without  a-raisin'  some  feller's  fur  ?  " 

At  last  I  suspected  the  itinerant  butcher 
of  doing  double  duty  as  a  reporter,  and 
found  that  he  "  was  engaged  by  several 
editors  to  pick  up  bits  of  news  for  the 
press  "  as  he  went  his  daily  rounds.  "  But 


a  ^orse.  43 


this,"  I  exclaimed,  "  is  just  what  I  don't 
want  and  can't  allow.  Now  if  you 
should  drive  in  here  some  day  and  dis 
cover  me  dead,  reclining  against  yonder 
noble  elm,  or  stark  at  its  base,  surrounded 
by  my  various  pets,  don't  allude  to  it  in 
the  most  indirect  way.  I  prefer  the  fu 
neral  to  be  strictly  private.  Moreover,  if 
I  notice  another  *  item  '  about  me,  I'll  buy 
of  your  rival."  And  the  trouble  ceased. 

But  the  horses!  Still  they  came  and 
went.  I  used  to  pay  my  friend  the  rubi 
cund  surgeon  to  test  some  of  these  highly 
recommended  animals  in  a  short  drive 
with  me. 

One  pronounced  absolutely  unrivaled 
was  discovered  by  my  wise  mentor  to  be 
"  watch-eyed,"  "  rat-tailed,"  with  a  swol 
len  gland  on  the  neck,  would  shy  at  a 
stone,  stand  on  hind  legs  for  a  train,  with 
various  other  minor  defects.  I  grew  faint 
hearted,  discouraged,  cynical,  bitter.  Was 
there  no  horse  for  me  ?  I  became  town- 


44    Qlbopting  an  Qlbanboneb  .farm. 

talk  as  "  a  drefful  fussy  old  maid  who  did 
n't  know  her  own  mind,  and  couldn't  be 
suited  no  way." 

I  remember  one  horse  brought  by  a 
butcher  from  West  Bungtown.  It  was,  in 
the  vernacular,  a  buck-skin.  Hide-bound, 
with  ribs  so  prominent  they  suggested  a 
wash-board.  The  two  fore  legs  were  well 
bent  out  at  the  knees ;  both  hind  legs  were 
swelled  near  the  hoofs.  His  ears  nearly 
as  large  as  a  donkey's ;  one  eye  covered 
with  a  cataract,  the  other  deeply  sunken. 
A  Roman  nose,  accentuated  by.  a  wide 
stripe,  aided  the  pensive  expression  of  his 
drooping  under  lip.  He  leaned  against 
the  shafts  as  if  he  were  tired. 

"  There,  Marm,"  said  the  owner,  eying 
my  face  as  an  amused  expression  stole 
over  it ;  "  ef  you  don't  care  for  style,  ef  ye 
want  a  good,  steddy  critter,  and  a  critter 
that  can  go,  and  a  critter  that  any  lady  can 
drive,  there's  the  critter  for  ye !  " 

I  did  buy  at  last,  for  life  had  become 


Sumng  a  ^orsc.  45 

a  burden.  An  interested  neighbor  (who 
really  pitied  me  ?)  induced  me  to  buy  a 
pretty  little  black  horse.  I  named  him 
"O.  K." 

After  a  week  I  changed  to  "  N.  G." 

After  he  had  run  away,  and  no  one 
would  buy  him,  "  D.  B." 

At  last  I  succeeded  in  exchanging  this 
shying  and  dangerous  creature  for  a  mel 
ancholy,  overworked  mare  at  a  livery  sta 
ble.  I  hear  that  "  D.  B."  has  since  killed 
two  /-talians  by  throwing  them  out  when 
not  sufficiently  inebriated  to  fall  against 
rocks  with  safety. 

And  my  latest  venture  is  a  backer. 

Horses  have  just  as  many  disagreeable 
traits,  just  as  much  individuality  in  their 
badness,  as  human  beings.  Under  kind 
treatment,  daily  petting,  and  generous 
feeding,  "  Dolly  "  is  too  frisky  and  head 
strong  for  a  lady  to  drive. 

"  Sell  that  treacherous  beast  at  once  or 
you  will  be  killed,"  writes  an  anxious 


46    QUmpting  an  Qtbanboneb  .farm. 

friend  who  had  a  slight  acquaintance 
with  her  moods. 

I  want  now  to  find  an  equine  reliance 
whose  motto  is  "  Nulla  vestigia  retror- 
sum,"  or  "  No  steps  backward." 

I  have  pasted  Mr.  Hale's  famous  motto, 
"  Look  forward  and  not  back,"  over  her 
stall — but  with  no  effect.  The  "  Lend  a 
Hand  "  applies  to  those  we  yell  for  when 
the  backing  is  going  on. 

By  the  way,  a  witty  woman  said  the 
other  day  that  men  always  had  the  ad 
vantage.  A  woman  looked  back  and  was 
turned  into  a  pillar  of  salt ;  Bellamy  looked 
back  and  made  sixty  thousand  dollars. 

Mr.  Robert  B.  Roosevelt,  in  his  amus 
ing  book  "  Five  Acres  too  Much  "  gives 
even  a  more  tragic  picture,  saying :  "  My 
experience  of  horseflesh  has  been  various 
and  instructive.  I  have  been  thrown 
over  their  heads  and  slid  over  their  tails; 
have  been  dragged  by  saddle,  stirrups, 
and  tossed  out  of  wagons.  I  have  had 


J3  aging  a  florae.  47 

them  to  back  and  to  kick,  to  run  and  to 
bolt,  to  stand  on  their  hind  feet  and  kick 
with  their  front,  and  then  reciprocate  by 
standing  on  their  front  and  kicking  with 
their  hind  feet.  ...  I  have  been  thrown 
much  with  horses  and  more  by  them." 

"  Horses  are  the  most  miserable  creat 
ures,  invariably  doing  precisely  what 
they  ought  not  to  do ;  a  pest,  a  nuisance, 
a  bore."  Or,  as  some  one  else  puts  it : 

"A  horse  at  its  best  is  an  amiable 
idiot ;  at  its  worst,  a  dangerous  maniac." 


CHAPTER   IV. 

FOR    THOSE    WHO    LOVE    PETS. 

"  All  were  loved  and  all  were  regretted,  but  life 
is  made  up  of  forgetting." 

"  The  best  thing  which  a  man  possesses  is  his 
dog." 

WHEN  I  saw  a  man  driving  into  my 
yard  after  this,  I  would  dart  out  of  a 
back  door  and  flee  to  sweet  communion 
with  my  cows. 

On  one  such  occasion  I  shouted  back 
that  I  did  not  want  a  horse  of  any  vari 
ety,  could  not  engage  any  fruit  trees,  did 
not  want  the  place  photographed,  and 
was  just  going  out  to  spend  the  day.  I 
was  courteously  but  firmly  informed  that 
my  latest  visitor  had,  singular  to  relate, 
no  horse  to  dispose  of,  but  he  "would 
like  fourteen  dollars  for  my  dog  tax  for 
the  current  year !  "  As  he  was  also  sher- 


for  tljose  tuljo  Cotie  {Jets.         49 

iff,  constable,  and  justice  of  the  peace,  I 
did  not  think  it  worth  while  to  argue  the 
question,  although  I  had  no  more  thought 
of  being  called  up  to  pay  a  dog  tax  than 
a  hen  tax  or  cat  tax.  I  trembled,  lest  I 
should  be  obliged  to  enumerate  my  en 
tire  menagerie — cats,  dogs,  canaries,  rab 
bits,  pigs,  ducks,  geese,  hens,  turkeys, 
pigeons,  peacocks,  cows,  and  horses. 

Each  kind  deserves  an  entire  chapter, 
and  how  easy  it  would  be  to  write  of  cats 
and  their  admirers  from  Cambyses  to 
Warner ;  of  dogs  and  their  friends  from 
Ulysses  to  Bismarck.  I  agree  with  Ik 
Marvel  that  a  cat  is  like  a  politician,  sly 
and  diplomatic ;  purring — for  food;  and 
affectionate — for  a  consideration ;  really 
caring  nothing  for  friendship  and  devo 
tion,  except  as  means  to  an  end.  Those 
who  write  books  and  articles  and  verse 
and  prose  tributes  to  cats  think  very  dif 
ferently,  but  the  cats  I  have  met  have 
been  of  this  type. 


50    &bo;pting  an  &bano0neb  farm. 

And  dogs.  Are  they  really  so  affec 
tionate,  or  are  they  also  a  little  shrewd  in 
licking  the  hand  that  feeds  them  ?  I  dis 
like  to  be  pessimistic.  But  when  my 
dogs  come  bounding  to  meet  me  for  a 
jolly  morning  greeting  they  do  seem  ex 
pectant  and  hungry  rather  than  affection 
ate.  At  other  hours  of  the  day  they 
plead  with  loving  eyes  and  wagging  tails 
for  a  walk  or  a  seat  in  the  carriage  or 
permission  to  follow  the  wagon. 

But  I  will  not  analyze  their  motives. 
They  fill  the  house  and  grounds  with  life 
and  frolic,  and  a  farm  would  be  incom 
plete  if  they  were  missing.  Hamerton,  in 
speaking  of  the  one  dog,  the  special  pet 
and  dear  companion  of  one's  youth,  ob 
serves  that  "the  comparative  shortness 
of  the  lives  of  dogs  is  the  only  imperfec 
tion  in  the  relation  between  them  and 
us.  If  they  had  lived  to  three-score  and 
ten,  man  and  dog  might  have  traveled 
through  life  together,  but,  as  it  is,  we 


for  tljcrse  rol)0  Cone  J)et0.         51 

must  either  have  a  succession  of  affec 
tions,  or  else,  when  the  first  is  buried  in 
its  early  grave,  live  in  a  chill  condition  of 
dog-less-ness." 

I  thank  him  for  that  expressive  com 
pound  word.  Almost  every  one  might, 
like  Grace  Greenwood  and  Gautier,  write 
a  History  of  my  Pets  and  make  a  readable 
book.  Carlyle,  the  grand  old  growler, 
was  actually  attached  to  a  little  white 
dog — his  wife's  special  delight,  for  whom 
she  used  to  write  cute  little  notes  to  the 
master.  And  when  he  met  with  a  fatal 
accident,  he  was  tenderly  nursed  by  both 
for  months,  and  when  the  doctor  was  at 
last  obliged  to  put  him  out  of  pain  by 
prussic  acid,  their  grief  was  sincere. 
They  buried  him  at  the  top  of  the  garden 
in  Cheyne  Row,  and  planted  cowslips 
round  his  grave,  and  his  mistress  placed  a 
stone  tablet,  with  name  and  date,  to  mark 
the  last  resting  place  of  her  blessed 
dog. 


52    Qtbopting  an  Qtbanbonefc  .farm. 

"  I  could  not  have  believed,"  writes 
Carlyle  in  the  Memorials,  "  my  grief  then 
and  since  would  have  been  the  twentieth 
part  of  what  it  was — nay,  that  the  want 
of  him  would  have  been  to  me  other  than 
a  riddance.  Our  last  midnight  walk  to 
gether  (for  he  insisted  on  trying  to  come), 
January  3ist,  is  still  painful  to  my  thought. 
Little  dim,  white  speck  of  life,  of  love,  of 
fidelity,  girdled  by  the  darkness  of  night 
eternal." 

Beecher  said  many  a  good  thing  about 
dogs,  but  I  like  this  best :  Speaking  of 
horseback  riding,  he  incidentally  re 
marked  that  in  evolution,  the  human  door 
was  just  shut  upon  the  horse,  but  the  dog 
got  fully  up  before  the  door  was  shut. 
If  there  was  not  reason,  mirthfulness, 
love,  honor,  and  fidelity  in  a  dog,  he  did 
not  know  where  to  look  for  it.  Oh,  if 
they  only  could  speak,  what  wise  and  hu 
morous  and  sarcastic  things  they  would 
say  !  Did  you  never  feel  snubbed  by  an 


for  tl)0se  tul)o  Coue  JJets.         53 

immense  dog  you  had  tried  to  patronize  ? 
And  I  have  seen  many  a  dog  smile.  Bay 
ard  Taylor  says :  "  I  know  of  nothing 
more  moving,  indeed  semi-tragic,  than 
the  yearning  helplessness  in  the  face  of 
a  dog,  who  understands  what  is  said  to 
him,  and  can  not  answer !  " 

Dr.  Holland  wrote  a  poem  to  his  dog 
Blanco,  "  his  dear,  dumb  friend,"  in  which 
he  expresses  what  we  all  have  felt  many 
times. 

I  look  into  your  great  brown  eyes, 
Where  love  and  loyal  homage  shine, 

And  wonder  where  the  difference  lies 
Between  your  soul  and  mine. 

The  whole  poem  is  one  of  the  best 
things  Holland  ever  did  in  rhyme.  He 
was  ambitious  to  be  remembered  as  a 
poet,  but  he  never  excelled  in  verse  un 
less  he  had  something  to  express  that  was 
very  near  his  heart.  He  was  emphati 
cally  the  Apostle  of  Common  Sense. 


54    &&0:ptittg  an  &banb0neo  farm. 

How  beautifully  he  closes  his  loving  trib 
ute — 

Ah,  Blanco,  did  I  worship  God 

As  truly  as  you  worship  me, 
Or  follow  where  my  Master  trod 

With  your  humility, 

Did  I  sit  fondly  at  his  feet 
As  you,  dear  Blanco,  sit  at  mine, 

And  watch  him  with  a  love  as  sweet, 
My  life  would  grow  divine  ! 

Almost  all  our  great  men  have  more 
than  one  dog  in  their  homes.  When  I 
spent  a  day  with  the  Quaker  poet  at  Dan- 
vers,  I  found  he  had  three  dogs.  Roger 
Williams,  a  fine  Newfoundland,  stood  on 
the  piazza,  with  the  questioning,  patron 
izing  air  of  a  dignified  host ;  a  bright-faced 
Scotch  terrier,  Charles  Dickens,  peered  at 
us  from  the  window,  as  if  glad  of  a  little 
excitement ;  while  Carl,  the  graceful  grey 
hound,  was  indolently  coiled  up  on  a 
shawl  and  took  little  notice  of  us. 

Whittier  has  also  a  pet  cow,  favorite 
and  favored,  which  puts  up  her  handsome 


for  tl)00e  wl)0  £oue  fkts.         55 


head  for  an  expected  caress.  The  kindly 
hearted  old  poet,  so  full  of  tenderness  for 
all  created  things,  told  me  that  years 
when  nuts  were  scarce  he  would  put 
beech  nuts  and  acorns  here  and  there  as 
he  walked  over  his  farm,  to  cheer  the 
squirrels  by  an  unexpected  find. 

Miss  Mitford's  tribute  to  her  defunct 
doggie  shows  to  what  a  degree  of  imbe 
cility  an  old  maid  may  carry  fondness  for 
her  pets,  but  it  is  pathetically  amusing. 

"  My  own  darling  Mossy's  hair,  cut  off 
after  he  was  dead  by  dear  Drum,  August 
22,  1819.  He  was  the  greatest  darling 
that  ever  lived  (son  of  Maria  and  Mr. 
Webb's  *  Ruler,'  a  famous  dog  given  him 
by  Lord  Rivers),  and  was,  when  he  died, 
about  seven  or  eight  years  old.  He  was 
a  large  black  dog,  of  the  largest  and 
strongest  kind  of  greyhounds;  very  fast 
and  honest,  and  resolute  past  example; 
an  excellent  killer  of  hares,  and  a  most 
magnificent  and  noble-looking  creature. 


56    &b0ptitt0  an  &banfcone&  farm. 


His  coat  was  of  the  finest  and  most 
glossy  black,  with  no  white,  except  a  very 
little  under  his  feet  (pretty  white  shoe 
linings  I  used  to  call  them)  —  a  little 
beautiful  white  spot,  quite  small,  in  the 
very  middle  of  his  neck,  between  his  chin 
and  his  breast  —  and  a  white  mark  on  his 
bosom.  His  face  was  singularly  beauti 
ful  ;  the  finest  black  eyes,  very  bright, 
and  yet  sweet,  and  fond,  and  tender  — 
eyes  that  seemed  to  speak  ;  a  beautiful, 
complacent  mouth,  which  used  sometimes 
to  show  one  of  the  long  white  teeth  at 
the  side;  a  jet  black  nose;  a  brow  which 
was  bent  and  flexible,  like  Mr.  Fox's,  and 
gave  great  sweetness  and  expression,  and 
a  look  of  thought  to  his  dear  face. 
There  never  was  such  a  dog  !  His  tem 
per  was,  beyond  comparison,  the  sweet 
est  ever  known.  Nobody  ever  saw  him 
out  of  humor.  And  his  sagacity  was 
equal  to  his  temper.  Thank  God,  he 
went  off  without  suffering.  He  must 


for  tl)0se  tnl)0  £ouc  JJets.         57 

have  died  in  a  moment.  I  thought  I 
should  have  broken  my  heart  when  I 
came  home  and  found  what  had  hap 
pened.  I  shall  miss  him  every  moment 
of  my  life ;  I  have  missed  him  every  in 
stant  to-day — so  have  Drum  and  Granny. 
He  was  laid  out  last  night  in  the  stable, 
and  this  morning  we  buried  him  in  the 
middle  plantation  on  the  house  side  of 
the  fence,  in  the  flowery  corner,  between 
the  fence  and  Lord  Shrewsbury's  fields. 
We  covered  his  dear  body  with  flowers; 
every  flower  in  the  garden.  Everybody 
loved  him ;  { dear  saint,'  as  I  used  to 
call  him,  and  as  /  do  not  doubt  he  now 
is! !  No  human  being  was  ever  so  faith 
ful,  so  gentle,  so  generous,  and  so 
fond!  I  shall  never  love  anything  half 
so  well. 

"It  will  always  be  pleasant  to  me  to 
remember  that  I  never  teased  him  by  pet 
ting  other  things,  and  that  everything  I 
had  he  shared.  He  always  ate  half  my 


58    Stbopting  an  Qtbanboneb  farm. 

breakfast,  and  the  very  day  before  he 
died  I  fed  him  all  the  morning  with  fil 
berts."  (There  may  have  been  a  con 
nection  between  the  filberts  and  the  fu 
neral.) 
7 

"  While  I  had  him,  I  was  always  sure  of 
having  one  who  would  love  me  alike  in 
riches  or  poverty,  who  always  looked  at 
me  with  looks  of  the  fondest  love,  always 
faithful  and  always  kind.  To  think  of 
him  was  a  talisman  against  vexing 
thoughts.  A  thousand  times  I  have  said, 
*  I  want  my  Mossy,'  when  that  dear 
Mossy  was  close  by  and  would  put  his 
dear  black  nose  under  my  hand  on  hear 
ing  his  name.  God  bless  you,  my  Mossy! 
I  cried  when  you  died,  and  I  can  hardly 
help  crying  whenever  I  think  of  you. 
All  who  loved  me  loved  Mossy.  He  had 
the  most  perfect  confidence  in  me — al 
ways  came  to  me  for  protection  against 
any  one  who  threatened  him,  and,  thank 
God,  always  found  it.  I  value  all  things 


tljose  tul)o  £oue  flete.         59 


he  had  lately  or  ever  touched  ;  even  the 
old  quilt  that  used  to  be  spread  on  my 
bed  for  him  to  lie  on,  and  which  we 
called  Mossy's  quilt  ;  and  the  pan  that  he 
used  to  drink  out  of  in  the  parlor,  and 
which  was  always  called  Mossy's  pan, 
dear  darling! 

"  I  forgot  to  say  that  his  breath  was 
always  sweet  and  balmy  ;  his  coat  al 
ways  glossy  like  satin  ;  and  he  never 
had  any  disease  or  anything  to  make 
him  disagreeable  in  his  life.  Many  oth 
er  things  I  have  omitted  ;  and  so  I 
should  if  I  were  to  write  a  whole  vol 
ume  of  his  praise;  for  he  was  above 
all  praise,  sweet  angel  !  I  have  inclosed 
some  of  his  hair,  cut  off  by  papa  af 
ter  his  death,  and  some  of  the  hay  on 
which  he  was  laid  out.  He  died  Satur 
day,  the  2ist  of  August,  1819,  at  Ber 
tram  House.  Heaven  bless  him,  beloved 
angel  !  " 

It  is  as  sad  as  true  that  great  natures 


60    ^opting  an  OVbanaonea  i*arm. 

are  solitary,  and  therefore  doubly  value 
the  affections  of  their  pets. 

Southey  wrote  a  most  interesting  biog 
raphy  of  the  cats  of  Greta  Hall,  and  on 
the  demise  of  one  wrote  to  an  old  friend  : 
"Alas!  Grosvenor,  this  day  poor  old 
Rumpel  was  found  dead,  after  as  long 
and  as  happy  a  life  as  cat  could  wish  for 
— if  cats  form  wishes  on  that  subject. 
There  should  be  a  court  mourning  in  Cat- 
land,  and  if  the  Dragon  wear  a  black 
ribbon  round  his  neck,  or  a  band  ot 
crape,  a  la  militaire,  round  one  of  the 
fore  paws,  it  will  be  but  a  becoming 
mark  of  respect.  As  we  have  not  cata 
combs  here,  he  is  to  be  decently  interred 
in  the  orchard  and  catnip  planted  on 
his  grave." 

And  so  closes  this  catalogue  of  South- 
ey's  "Cattery." 

But,  hark !  my  cats  are  mewing,  dogs 
all  calling  for  me — no — for  dinner  !  After 
all,  what  is  the  highest  civilization  but 


for  tl)osc  tol)0  Cooe  JJels.         61 


a  thin  veneer  over  natural  appetites? 
What  would  a  club  be  without  its  chefs, 
a  social  affair  without  refreshment,  a 
man  without  his  dinner,  a  woman  without 
her  tea?  Come  to  think  of  it,  I'm  hun 
gry  myself! 


CHAPTER  V. 

STARTING  A  POULTRY  FARM. 

If  every  hen  should  only  raise  five  broods  yearly 
of  ten  each,  and  there  were  ten  hens  to  start  with, 
at  the  end  of  two  years  they  would  number  344,760, 
after  the  superfluous  roosters  were  sold  ;  and  then, 
supposing  the  extra  eggs  to  have  paid  for  their  keep 
ing  and  the  produce  to  be  worth  only  a  dollar  and  a 
half  a  pair,  there  would  be  a  clear  profit  of  $258,520. 
Allowing  for  occasional  deaths,  this  sum  might  be 
stated  in  round  numbers  at  a  quarter  of  a  million, 
which  would  be  a  liberal  increase  from  ten  hens. 
Of  course  I  did  not  expect  to  do  as  well  as  this,  but 
merely  mention  what  might  be  done  with  good  luck 
and  forcing.  ROBERT  ROOSEVELT. 

HAVING  always  heard,  on  the  best  au 
thority,  that  there  was  u  money  in  hens,' 
I  invested  largely  in  prize  fowls  secured  at 
State  fairs  and  large  poultry  shows,  buy 
ing  as  many  kinds  as  possible  to  make 
an  effective  and  brilliant  display  in  their 
«  runs." 


Starting  a  poultry  -farm.        63 

There  is  a  good  deal  of  money  in  my  hens 
— how  to  get  it  back  is  the  present  prob 
lem.  These  hens  were  all  heralded  as  fa 
mous  layers ;  several  did  lay  in  the  trav 
eling  coops  on  the  journey,  great  pinky- 
brown  beauties,  just  to  show  what  they 
could  do  if  they  chose,  then  stopped 
suddenly.  I  wrote  anxiously  to  former 
owners  of  this  vaunted  stock  to  ex 
plain  such  disappointing  behavior.  Some 
guessed  the  hens  were  just  moulting,  oth 
ers  thought  "  may  be  they  were  broody  " ; 
a  few  had  the  frankness  to  agree  with  me 
that  it  was  mighty  curious,  but  hens  al 
ways  were  "  sorter  contrary  critters." 

Their  appetites  remained  normal,  but, 
as  the  little  girl  said  of  her  pet  bantam, 
they  only  lay  about  doing  nothing.  And 
when  guests  desired  some  of  my  fine  fresh 
eggs  boiled  for  breakfast,  I  used  to  go 
secretly  to  a  neighbor  and  buy  a  dozen, 
but  never  gave  away  the  mortifying  sit 
uation. 


64    QUropting  an  QUwnironeb  .farm. 

Seeing  piles  of  ducks'  eggs  in  a  farmer's 
barn,  all  packed  for  market,  and  pictur 
ing  the  producers,  thirty  white  Pekins,  a 
snowy,  self-supporting  fleet  on  my  re 
formed  lakelet,  I  bought  the  whole  lot,  and 
for  long  weary  months  they  were  fed  and 
pampered  and  coaxed  and  reasoned  with, 
shut  up,  let  out,  kept  on  the  water,  for 
bidden  to  go  to  it,  but  not  one  egg  to  be 
seen ! 

It  was  considered  a  rich  joke  in  that 
locality  that  a  city  woman  who  was  try 
ing  to  farm,  had  applied  for  these  ducks 
just  as  they  had  completed  their  labors 
for  the  season  of  i888-*9o  ;  they  were 
also  extremely  venerable,  and  the  reticent 
owner  rejoiced  to  be  relieved  of  an  ex 
pensive  burden  at  good  rates.  Knowing 
nothing  of  these  facts  in  natural  history, 
I  pondered  deeply  over  the  double  phe 
nomenon.  I  said  the  hens  seemed  normal 
only  as  to  appetite  ;  the  ducks  proved 
abnormal  in  this  respect.  They  were  al- 


Starting  a  {Jonltrg  -farm.        65 

ways  coming  up  to  the  back  door,  clam 
oring  for  food — always  tmappeased.  They 
preferred  cake,  fresh  bread,  hot  boiled 
potatoes,  doted  on  tender  bits  of  meat, 
but  would  gobble  up  anything  and  every 
thing,  more  voracious  and  less  fastidious 
than  the  ordinary  hog  of  commerce. 
Bags  of  corn  were  consumed  in  a  flash, 
"  shorts "  were  never  long  before  their 
eager  gaze,  they  went  for  every  kind  of 
nourishment  provided  for  the  rest  of  the 
menagerie.  A  goat  is  supposed  to  have  a 
champion  appetite  and  digestion,  but  a 
duck — at  least  one  of  my  ducks — leaves  a 
goat  so  far  behind  that  he  never  could 
regain  his  reputation  for  omniverosity. 
They  were  too  antique  to  be  eaten  them 
selves — their  longevity  entitled  them  to 
respect ;  they  could  not  be  disposed  of 
by  the  shrewdest  market  man  to  the  least 
particular  of  boarding-house  providers  ;  I 
could  only  regard  them  with  amazement 
and  horror  and  let  them  go  on  eating 


66    Qlbouin    an  &banboneb  farm. 


me   out  of   house  and  home  and  purse- 
strings. 

But  at  last  I  knew.  I  asked  an  honest 
man  from  afar,  who  called  to  sell  some 
thing,  why  those  ducks  would  not  lay  a 
single  egg.  He  looked  at  them  critically 
and  wrote  to  me  the  next  day  : 

"  DEAR  MADAM  :  The  reason  your 
ducks  won't  lay  is  because  they're  too 
old  to  live  and  the  bigest  part  of  'em  is 
drakes.  Respectfully, 

JONAS  HURLBERT." 

I  hear  that  there  are  more  ducks  in  the 
Chinese  Empire  than  in  all  the  world  out 
side  of  it.  They  are  kept  by  the  Celes 
tials  on  every  farm,  on  the  private  and 
public  roads,  on  streets  of  cities,  and  on 
all  the  lakes,  ponds,  rivers,  streams,  and 
brooks  in  the  country.  That  is  the  secret 
of  their  lack  of  progress.  What  time 
have  they  to  advance  after  the  ducks  are 
fed  and  cared  for  ?  No  male  inhabitant 


Starting  a  flonitrjj  ,farm.        67 

could  ever  squeeze  out  a  leisure  half- 
hour  to  visit  a  barber,  hence  their  long 
queues. 

About  this  time  the  statement  of  Mr. 
Crankin,  of  North  Yeaston,  Rhode  Island, 
that  he  makes  a  clear  and  easy  profit  of 
five  dollars  and  twenty  cents  per  hen 
each  year,  and  nearly  forty-four  dollars 
to  every  duck,  and  might  have  increased 
said  profit  if  he  had  hatched,  rather  than 
sold,  seventy-two  dozen  eggs,  struck  me 
as  wildly  apocryphal.  Also  that  caring 
for  said  hens  and  ducks  was  merely  an 
incident  of  his  day's  work  on  the  large 
farm,  he  working  with  his  laborers. 
Heart -sick  and  indignant,  contrasting 
his  rosy  success  with  my  leaden  -  hued 
failure,  I  decided  to  give  all  my  ducks 
away,  as  they  wouldn't,  couldn't  drown, 
and  there  would  be  no  use  in  killing 
them.  But  no  one  wanted  them !  And 
everybody  smiled  quizzically  when  I  pro 
posed  the  gift. 


68    Qlbopting  an  Qtbanironeb  ,faritt. 

Just  then,  as  if  in  direct  sarcasm,  a 
friend  sent  me  a  paper  with  an  item 
marked  to  the  effect  that  a  poor  young 
girl  had  three  ducks'  eggs  given  her  as 
the  basis  of  a  solid  fortune,  and  actually 
cleared  one  hundred  and  eighteen  dollars 
from  those  three  eggs  the  first  year. 

Another  woman  solemnly  asserts  in 
print  a  profit  of  $448.69  from  one  hun 
dred  hens  each  year. 

The  census  man  told  me  of  a  woman 
who  had  only  eighteen  hens.  They  gave 
her  sixteen  hundred  and  ninety  eggs,  of 
which  she  sold  eighteen  dollars'  worth, 
leaving  plenty  for  household  use. 

And  my  hens  and  my  ducks !  In  my 
despair  I  drove  a  long  way  to  consult  a 
"  duck  man."  He  looked  like  the  typical 
Brother  Jonathan,  only  with  a  longer 
beard,  and  his  face  was  haggard,  un 
kempt,  anxious.  He  could  scarcely  stop 
to  converse,  evidently  grudged  the  time, 
devotes  his  entire  energies  from  dawn  to 


Starting  a  JJattltrjj  ,farm.         69 

twilight  to  slaving  for  his  eight  hundred 
ducklings.  He  also  kept  an  incubator 
going  all  the  time. 

"  Do  ducks  pay  you  ? "  I  asked. 

"Wall,  I'm  gettin'  to  be  somewhat  of  a 
bigotist,"  he  said ;  "  I  barely  git  a  livin'." 

"  Why  Mr.  Crankin— "  I  began. 

The  name  roused  his  jealous  ire,  and 
his  voice,  a  low  mumble  before,  now  burst 
into  a  loud  roar.  "  Yes,  Crankin  makes 
money,  has  a  sight  o'  incubators,  makes 
'em  himself,  sells  a  lot,  but  some  say  they 
don't  act  like  his  do  when  they  git  off  his 
place;  most  on  'em  seem  possessed,  but 
Crankin,  he  can  manage  'em  and  makes 
money  too." 

"  Do  your  ducks  lay  much  ? " 

"  Lay  !  I  don't  want  'em  to  lay  !  Sell 
'em  all  out  at  nine  weeks,  'fore  the  pin 
feathers  come;  then  they're  good  eatin' 
— for  them  as  likes  'em.  I've  heard  of 
yure  old  lot.  Kill  'em,  I  say,  and  start 
new ! " 


yo    QUr0jJting  an  Qtbanbanefc  farm. 

"  Crankin  says — " 

"  I  don't  care  nothing  what  Crankin 
says  "  (here  the  voice  would  have  filled  a 
cathedral),  "  I  tell  ye ;  me  and  Crankin's 
two  different  critters! " 

So  I  felt ;  but  it  would  not  do  to  give 
up.  I  purchased  an  expensive  incubator 
and  brooder  —  needn't  have  bought  a 
brooder.  I  put  into  the  incubator  at  a 
time  when  eggs  were  scarce  and  high 
priced,  two  hundred  eggs  —  hens'  eggs, 
ducks'  eggs,  goose  eggs.  The  tempera 
ture  must  be  kept  from  102°  to  104°. 
The  lamps  blazed  up  a  little  on  the  first 
day,  but  after  that  we  kept  the  heat  ex 
actly  right  by  daily  watching  and  night 
vigils.  It  engrossed  most  of  the  time  of 
four  able-bodied  victims. 

Nothing  ever  was  developed.  The 
eggs  were  probably  cooked  that  first 
(day! 

Now  I'm  vainly  seeking  for  a  pur 
chaser  for  my  I.  and  B.  Terms  of  sale 


Starting  a  JJonitrj)  farm.        71 

very  reasonable.  Great  reduction  from 
original  price;  shall  no  doubt  be  forced 
to  give  them  away  to  banish  painful  rec 
ollections. 

I  also  invested  in  turkeys,  geese,  and 
peacocks,  and  a  pair  of  guinea  hens  to 
keep  hawks  away. 

For  long  weary  months  the  geese 
seemed  the  only  fowls  truly  at  home  on 
my  farm.  They  did  their  level  best. 
Satisfied  that  my  hens  would  neither  lay 
nor  set,  I  sent  to  noted  poultry  fanciers 
for  "  settings "  of  eggs  at  three  dollars 
per  thirteen,  then  paid  a  friendly  "  hen 
woman  "  for  assisting  in  the  mysterious 
evolution  of  said  eggs  into  various  inter 
esting  little  families  old  enough  to  be 
brought  to  me. 

Many  and  curious  were  the  casualties 
befalling  these  young  broods.  Chickens 
are  subject  to  all  the  infantile  diseases  of 
children  and  many  more  of  their  own, 
and  mine  were  truly  afflicted.  Imprimis, 


72    QUmpting  an  Qlbanboneb  -farm. 

most  would  not  hatch ;  the  finest  Brahma 
eggs  contained  the  commonest  barn-yard 
fowls.  Some  stuck  to  the  shell,  some  were 
drowned  in  a  saucer  of  milk,  some  perished 
because  no  lard  had  been  rubbed  on  their 
heads,  others  passed  away  discouraged  by 
too  much  lard.  Several  ate  rose  bugs 
with  fatal  results ;  others  were  greedy  as 
to  gravel  and  agonized  with  distended 
crops  till  released  by  death.  They  had 
more  "  sand "  than  was  good  for  them. 
They  were  raised  on  "  Cat  Hill,"  and  five 
were  captured  by  felines,  and  when  the 
remnant  was  brought  to  me  they  disap 
peared  day  by  day  in  the  most  puzzling 
manner  until  we  caught  our  mischievous 
pug,  "Tiny  Tim,"  holding  down  a  beau 
tiful  young  Leghorn  with  his  cruel  paw 
and  biting  a  piece  out  of  her  neck. 

So  they  left  me,  one  by  one,  like  the 
illusions  of  youth,  until  there  was  no 
"survival  of  the  fittest." 

In  a  ragged  old  barn  opposite,  a  hen 


Starting  a  JJonltro  ^arnt.        73 

had  stolen  her  nest  and  brought  out  sev 
enteen  vigorous  chicks.  I  paid  a  large 
bill  for  the  care  of  what  might  have  been 
a  splendid  collection,  and  meekly  bought 
that  faithful  old  hen  with  her  large  fami 
ly.  It  is  now  a  wonder  to  me  that  any 
chickens  arrive  at  maturity.  Fowls  are 
afflicted  with  parasitic  wrigglers  in  their 
poor  little  throats.  The  disease  is  called 
u  gapes,"  because  they  try  to  open  their 
bills  for  more  air  until  a  red  worm  in  the 
trachea  causes  suffocation.  This  horrid 
red  worm,  called  scientifically  Scelorostoma 
syngamus,  destroys  annually  half  a  million 
of  chickens. 

Dr.  Crisp,  of  England,  says  it  would  be 
of  truly  national  importance  to  find  the 
means  of  preventing  its  invasion. 

The  unpleasant  results  of  hens  and 
garden  contiguous,  Warner  has  described. 
They  are  incompatible  if  not  antagonistic. 
One  man  wisely  advises :  "  Fence  the 
garden  in  and  let  the  chickens  run,  as  the 


74    &bo:ptittg  an  &banbotteb  -farm. 

man  divided  the  house  with  his  quarrel 
some  wife,  by  taking  the  inside  himself 
and  giving  her  the  outside,  that  she  might 
have  room  according  to  her  strength." 

Looking  over  the  long  list  of  diseases 
to  which  fowls  are  subject  is  dispiriting. 
I  am  glad  they  can't  read  them,  or  they 
would  have  all  at  once,  as  J.  K.  Jerome, 
the  witty  playwright,  decided  he  had  ev 
ery  disease  found  in  a  medical  dictionary, 
except  housemaid's  knee.  Look  at  this 
condensed  list : 

DISEASES  OF  NERVOUS  SYSTEM.  —  i. 
Apoplexy.  2.  Paralysis.  3.  Vertigo.  4. 
Neuralgia.  5.  Debility. 

DISEASES  OF   DIGESTIVE  ORGANS. — 99. 

DISEASES  OF  LOCOMOTIVE  ORGANS. — 
i.  Rheumatism.  2.  Cramp.  3.  Gout.  4. 
Leg  weakness.  5.  Paralysis  of  legs.  6. 
Elephantiasis. 

Next,  diseases  caused  by  parasites. 

Then,  injuries. 

Lastly,  miscellaneous. 


Starting  a  JJonltrji  farm.         75 

I  could  add  a  still  longer  list  of  unclas 
sified  ills :  Homesickness,  fits,  melan 
cholia,  corns,  blindness  from  fighting  too 
much,  etc. 

Now  that  I  have  learned  to  raise  chick 
ens,  it  is  a  hard  and  slow  struggle  to  get 
any  killed.  I  say  in  an  off-hand  manner, 
with  assumed  nonchalance :  "  Ellen,  I 
want  Tom  to  kill  a  rooster  at  once  for  to 
morrow's  dinner,  and  I  have  an  order 
from  a  friend  for  four  more,  so  he  must 
select  five  to-night."  Then  begins  the 
trouble.  "  Oh,"  pleads  Ellen,  "  don't  kill 
dear  Dick  !  poor,  dear  Dick  !  That  is 
Tom's  pet  of  all ;  so  big  and  handsome 
and  knows  so  much  !  He  will  jump  up  on 
Tom's  shoulder  and  eat  out  of  his  hand 
and  come  when  he  calls — and  those  big 
Brahmas — don't  you  know  how  they  were 
brought  up  by  hand,  as  you  might  say, 
and  they  know  me  and  hang  around  the 
door  for  crumbs,  and  that  beauty  of  a 
Wyandock,  you  couldn't  eat  him  !  "  When 


76    Qibopting  an  Qtbattbonefc  farm. 

the  matter  is  decided,  as  the  guillotining 
is  going  on,  Ellen  and  I  sit  listening  to 
the  axe  thuds  and  the  death  squaks,  while 
she  wrings  her  hands,  saying  :  "  O  dearie 
me !  What  a  world — the  dear  Lord  ha' 
mercy  on  us  poor  creatures !  What  a 
thing  to  look  into,  that  we  must  kill  the 
poor  innocents  to  eat  them.  And  they 
were  so  tame  and  cunning,  and  would  fol 
low  me  all  around !  "  Then  I  tell  her  of 
the  horrors  of  the  French  Revolution  to 
distract  her  attention  from  the  present 
crisis,  and  alluded  to  the  horrors  of  canni 
balism  recently  disclosed  in  Africa.  Then 
I  fall  into  a  queer  reverie  and  imagine 
how  awful  it  would  be  if  we  should  ever 
be  called  to  submit  to  a  race  of  beings  as 
much  larger  than  we  are  as  we  are  above 
the  fowls.  I  almost  hear  such  a  monster 
of  a  house-wife,  fully  ninety  feet  high, 
say  to  a  servant,  looking  sternly  and  crit 
ically  at  me : 

"That    fat,   white    creature    must    be 


Starling  a  poultry  farm.         77 

killed;    just  eats  her  old  head  off — will  i 
soon  be  too  tough  " — Ugh  !     Here  Tom 
comes  with  five  headless  fowls.     Wasn't 
that  a  wierd  fancy  of  mine  ? 

Truly  "  Me  and  Crankin's  two  different 
critters." 

From  the  following  verse,  quoted  from 
a  recent  poultry  magazine,  I  conclude  that 
I  must  be  classed  as  a  "  chump."  As  it 
contains  the  secret  of  success  in  every 
undertaking,  it  should  be  committed  to 
memory  by  all  my  readers. 

"  Grit  makes  the  man, 
The  want  of  it  the  chump. 
The  men  who  win, 
Lay  hold,  hang  on,  and  hump." 


CHAPTER  VI. 

GHOSTS. 

"But  stop,"  says  the  courteous  and  prudent 
reader,  "  are  there  any  such  things  as  ghosts  ?  " 

"Any  ghostesses!"  cries  Superstition,  who  set 
tled  long  since  in  the  country,  near  a  church  yard 
on  a  "  rising  ground,"  "  any  ghostesses  !  Ay,  man. 
lots  on  'em  !  Bushels  on  'em !  Sights  on  'em  ! 
Why,  there's  one  as  walks  in  our  parish,  reglar  as 
the  clock  strikes  twelve  —  and  always  the  same 
round,  over  church- stile,  round  the  corner,  through 
the  gap,  into  Shorts  Spinney,  and  so  along  into  our 
close,  where  he  takes  a  drink  at  the  pump — for  ye 
see  he  died  in  liquor,  and  then  arter  he  squenched 
hisself,  wanishes  into  waper. 

"  Then  there's  the  ghost  of  old  Beales,  as  goes  o' 
nights  and  sows  tares  in  his  neighbor's  wheat — I've 
often  seed  'em  in  seed  time.  They  do  say  that  Black 
Ben,  the  poacher,  have  riz,  and  what's  more,  walked 
slap  through  all  the  squire's  steel  traps,  without 
springing  on  'em.  And  then  there's  Bet  Hawkey  as 
murdered  her  own  infant — only  the  poor  little  babby 
hadn't  learned  to  walk,  and  so  can't  appear  ag'in  her." 
THOMAS  HOOD,  The  Grimsby  Ghost. 

THAT  dark  little  room  I  described  as 
so  convenient  during  a  terrific  thunder- 


(Boosts.  79 


storm  or  the  prowling  investigations  of  a 
burglar,  began  after  a  while  to  get  mys 
terious  and  uncanny,  and  I  disliked,  nay, 
dreaded  to  enter  it  after  dark.  It  was  so 
still,  so  black,  so  empty,  so  chilly  with  a 
sort  of  supernatural  chill,  so  silent,  that 
imagination  conjured  up  sounds  such  as  I 
had  never  heard  before.  I  had  been  told 
of  an  extremely  old  woman,  a  great-great- 
grandmother,  bed-ridden,  peevish,  and 
weak-minded,  who  had  occupied  that 
room  for  nearly  a  score  of  years,  appar 
ently  forgotten  by  fate,  and  left  to  drag 
out  a  monotonous,  weary  existence  on 
not  her  "  mattress  grave  "  (like  the  poet 
Heine),  but  on  an  immensely  thick  feather 
bed ;  only  a  care,  a  burden,  to  her  rela 
tions. 

As  twilight  came  on,  I  always  carefully 
closed  that  door  and  shut  the  old  lady  in 
to  sleep  by  herself.  For  it  seemed  that 
she  was  still  there,  still  propped  up  in  an 
imaginary  bed,  mumbling  incoherently  of 


8o    Qlbojtitt    an  Qlbanboneir  farm. 


the  past,  or  moaning  out  some  want,  or 
calling  for  some  one  to  bring  a  light,  as 
she  used  to. 

Once  in  a  while,  they  told  me,  she 
would  regain  her  strength  suddenly  and 
astonish  the  family  by  appearing  at  the 
door.  When  the  grand-daughter  was  en 
joying  a  Sunday  night  call  from  her 
"  intended  "  it  was  rather  embarrassing. 

I  said  nothing  to  my  friends  about  this 
unpleasant  room.  But  several  were  sus 
ceptible  to  the  strange  influence.  One 
thought  she  should  not  mind  so  much  if 
the  door  swung  open,  and  a  portiere  con 
cealed  the  gloom.  So  a  cheerful  cretonne 
soon  was  hung.  Then  the  fancy  came 
that  the  curtain  stirred  and  swayed  as  if 
some  one  or  something  was  groping  fee 
bly  with  ghostly  or  ghastly  fingers  behind 
it.  And  one  night,  when  sitting  late  and 
alone  over  the  embers  of  my  open  fire, 
feeling  a  little  forlorn,  I  certainly  heard 
moans  coming  from  that  direction. 


(B>l)00t0.  8l 


It  was  not  the  wind,  for,  although  it  was 
late  October  and  the  breezes  were  sighing 
over  summer's  departure,  this  sound  was 
entirely  different  and  distinct.  Then  (and 
what  a  shiver  ran  down  my  back  !)  I  re- 
'membered  hearing  that  a  woman  had 
been  killed  by  falling  down  the  steep  cel 
lar  stairs,  and  the  spot  on  the  left  side 
where  she  was  found  unconscious  and 
bleeding  had  been  pointed  out  to  me. 
There,  I  heard  it  again !  Was  it  the 
wraith  of  the  aged  dame  or  the  cries  of 
that  unfortunate  creature?  Hush!  El 
len  can't  have  fallen  down  ! 

I  am  really  scared ;  the  lamp  seems  to 
be  burning  dim  and  the  last  coal  has  gone 
out.  Is  it  some  restless  spirit,  so  un 
happy  that  it  must  moan  out  its  weary 
plaint  ?  I  ought  to  be  brave  and  go  at 
once  and  look  boldly  down  the  cellar 
stairs  and  draw  aside  that  waving  por 
tiere.  Oh,  dear!  If  I  only  had  some  one 
to  go  with  me  and  hold  a  light  and — 


82    SUropting  an  &banbone&  farm. 

there  it  is — the  third  time.  Courage  van 
ished.  It  might  be  some  dreadful  tramp 
hiding  and  trying  to  drive  me  up-stairs, 
so  he  could  get  the  silver,  and  he  would 
gladly  murder  me  for  ten  cents — 

"Tom,"  I  cried.  "Tom,  come  here." 
But  Tom,  my  six-footer  factotum,  made 
no  response. 

I  could  stand  it  no  longer — the  por 
tiere  seemed  fairly  alive,  and  I  rushed  out 
to  the  kitchen  where  Ellen  sat  reading 
the  Ledger,  deep  in  the  horrors  of  The 
Forsaken  Inn.  "  Ellen,  I'm  ashamed,  but 
I'm  really  frightened.  I  do  believe  some 
body  is  in  that  horrid  dark  room,  or  in 
the  cellar,  and  where  is  Tom  ? 

"Bedad,  Miss,  and  you've  frightened 
the  heart  right  out  o'  me.  It  might  be  a 
ghost,  for  there  are  such  things  (Heaven 
help  us!),  and  I've  seen  'em  in  this  coun 
try  and  in  dear  old  Ireland,  and  so  has 
Tom." 

"  You've  seen  ghosts  ? " 


(Boosts.  83 


"Yes,  indeed,  Miss,  but  I've  never  spoke 
to  any,  for  you've  no  right  to  speak  to  a 
ghost,  and  if  you  do  you  will  surely  die." 
Tom  now  came  in  and  soon  satisfied  me 
that  there  was  no  living  thing  in  the  dark 
ness,  so  I  sat  down  and  listened  to  Ellen's 
experiences  with  ghosts. 

THE  FORMER  MRS.  WILKES.  —  "Now 
this  happened  in  New  York  city,  Miss,  in 
West  28th  Street,  and  is  every  word  true, 
for,  my  dear,  I  saw  it  with  my  own  eyes. 
I  went  to  bed,  about  half-past  nine  it  was 
this  night,  and  I  was  lying  quietly  in  bed, 
looking  up  to  the  ceiling ;  no  light  on  ac 
count  of  the  mosquitoes,  and  Maud,  the 
little  girl  I  was  caring  for,  a  romping  dear 
of  seven  or  eight,  a  motherless  child,  had 
been  tossing  about  restless  like,  and  her 
arm  was  flung  over  me.  All  at  once  I 
saw  a  lady  standing  by  the  side  of  the 
bed  in  her  night  dress  and  looking  ear 
nestly  at  the  child  beyond  me.  She  then 
came  nearer,  took  Maud's  arm  off  me, 


84    Quotin    an  Qlbanboneb  farm. 


and  gently  straightened  her  in  bed,  then 
stroked  her  face,  both  cheeks-  —  fondly,  you 
know  —  and  then  stood  and  looked  at  the 
child.  I  said  not  a  word,  but  I  wasn't  one 
bit  afraid  for  I  thought  it  was  a  living 
lady.  I  could  tell  the  color  of  her  eyes 
and  hair  and  just  how  she  looked  every 
way.  In  the  morning  I  described  her  to 
Mrs.  Wilkes,  and  asked,  '  Is  there  any 
strange  lady  in  the  house  ?  '  '  No,  Ellen. 
Why?'  she  said.  Then  I  said:  'Why, 
there  certainly  was  a  pleasant-looking 
lady  in  my  room  last  night,  in  her  night 
dress,  and  she  patted  Maud  as  if  she 
thought  a  sight  of  her.' 

"'Why,'  said  my  mistress,  'that  is  sure 
ly  the  former  Mrs.  Wilkes  !  ' 

"  She  said  that  the  older  daughter  had 
seen  her  several  times  standing  before  her 
glass,  fixing  her  hair  and  looking  at  her 
self,  but  if  she  spoke  to  her  or  tried  to 
speak,  her  mother  would  take  up  some 
thing  and  shake  it  at  her.  And  once  when 


(Boosts.  85 


we  were  going  up-stairs  together  Alice 
screamed,  and  said  that  her  mother  was 
at  the  top  of  the  stairs  and  blew  her 
cold  breath  right  down  on  her.  The  step 
mother  started  to  give  her  her  slipper,  but 
the  father  pitied  her  and  would  not  allow 
her  to  be  whipped,  and  said  *  I'll  go  up  to 
bed  with  you,  Alice.'  " 

"  Did  you  ever  see  the  lady  in  white 
again,  Ellen  ? " 

"  Never,  Ma'am,  nor  did  I  ever  see  any 
other  ghost  in  this  country  that  I  was  sure 
was  a  ghost,  but — Ireland,  dear  old  Ire 
land,  oh,  that's  an  ancient  land,  and  they 
have  both  ghosts  and  fairies  and  banshees 
too,  and  many's  the  story  I've  heard  over 
there,  and  from  my  own  dear  mother's 
lips,  and  she  would  not  tell  a  lie  (Heaven 
rest  her  soul !),  and  I've  seen  them  myself 
over  there,  and  so  has  Tom  and  his  broth 
er  too,  Miss.  Oh,  many's  the  story  I 
could  tell !  " 

"  Well,  Ellen,  let  me  have  one  of  your 


# 


86    &&0jjting  an  Qtbanfconefc  .farm. 

own — your  very  best."  And  I  went  for 
pencil  and  pad. 

"  And  are  ye  going  to  pin  down  my 
story.  Well,  Miss,  if  ye  take  it  just  as  I 
say,  and  then  fix  it  proper  to  be  read, 
they'll  like  it,  for  people  are  crazy  now  to 
get  the  true  ghost  stories  of  dear  old  Ire 
land.  O  Miss,  when  you  go  over,  don't 
forget  my  native  place.  It  has  a  real 
castle  and  a  part  of  it  is  haunted,  and  the 
master  doesn't  like  to  live  there — only 
comes  once  a  year  or  so,  for  hunting — and 
the  rabbits  there  are  as  thick  as  they  can 
be  and  the  river  chuck  full  of  fish,  but  no 
one  can  touch  any  game,  or  even  take  out 
one  fish,  or  they  would  be  punished." 

"  Yes,  Ellen  it's  hard,  and  all  wrong,  but 
we  are  wandering  away  from  your  ghosts, 
and  you  know  I  am  going  to  take  notes. 
So  begin." 

"  Well,  Miss,  I  was  a  sort  of  companion 
or  maid  to  a  blind  lady  in  my  own  town. 
I  slept  in  a  little  room  just  across  the 


Crusts.  87 


landing  from  hers,  so  as  to  always  be 
within  reach  of  her.  I  was  just  going  to 
bed,  when  she  called  for  me  to  come  in 
and  see  if  there  was  something  in  the 
room — something  alive,  she  thought,  that 
had  been  hopping,  hopping  all  around  her 
bed,  and  frightened  her  dreadfully,  poor 
thing,  for,  you  remember,  she  was  stone 
blind,  Miss,  which  made  it  worse.  So  I 
hurried  in  and  I  shook  the  curtains, 
looked  behind  the  bureau  and  under  the 
bed,  and  tried  everywhere  for  whatever 
might  be  hopping  around,  but  could  find 
nothing  and  heard  not  a  sound.  While  I 
was  there  all  was  still.  Then  I  went  into 
my  room  again,  and  left  the  door  open,  as 
I  thought  Miss  Lacy  would  feel  more 
comfortable  about  it,  and  I  was  hardly 
in  my  bed  when  she  called  again  and 
screamed  out  with  fear,  for  It  was  hopping 
round  the  bed.  She  said  I  must  go  down 
stairs  and  bring  a  candle.  So  I  had  to 
go  down-stairs  to  the  pantry  all  alone 


88    &bo;pting  an  &banb0nefc  -farm. 

and  get  the  candle.  Then  I  searched  as 
before,  but  found  nothing — not  a  thing. 
Well,  my  dear,  I  went  into  my  room  and 
kept  my  candle  lighted  this  time.  The 
third  time  she  called  me  she  was  stand 
ing  on  her  pillow,  shivering  with  fright, 
and  begged  me  to  bring  the  light.  It  was 
sad,  because  she  was  stone  blind.  She 
told  me  how  It  went  hopping  around  the 
room,  with  its  legs  tied  like.  And  after 
looking  once  more  and  finding  nothing, 
she  said  I'd  have  to  sleep  in  the  bed  with 
her  and  bring  a  chair  near  the  bed  and 
put  the  lighted  candle  on  it.  For  a  long 
time  we  kept  awake,  and  watched  and 
listened,  but  nothing  happened,  nothing 
appeared.  We  kept  awake  as  long  as  we 
could,  but  at  last  our  eyes  grew  very 
heavy,  and  the  lady  seemed  to  feel  more 
easy.  So  I  snuffed  out  the  candle.  Out 
It  hopped  and  kept  a  jumping  on  one  leg 
like  from  one  side  to  the  other.  We 
were  so  much  afraid  we  covered  our 


89 


faces;  we  dreaded  to  see  It,  so  we  hid 
our  eyes  under  the  sheet,  and  she  clung 
on  to  me  all  shaking;  she  felt  worse  be 
cause  she  was  blind. 

"  We  fell  asleep  at  daylight,  and  when 
I  told  Monk,  the  butler,  he  said  it  was  a 
corpse,  sure — a  corpse  whose  legs  had 
been  tied  to  keep  them  straight  and  the 
cords  had  not  been  taken  off,  the  feet  not 
being  loosened.  Why  my  own  dear  moth 
er,  that's  dead  many  a  year  (Heaven  bless 
her  departed  spirit !) — she  would  never  tell 
a  word  that  was  not  true — she  saw  a  ghost 
hopping  in  that  way,  tied-like,  jumping 
around  a  bed — blue  as  a  blue  bag;  just 
after  the  third  day  she  was  buried,  and 
my  mother  (the  Lord  bless  her  soul !)  told 
me  the  sons  went  to  her  grave  and  loos 
ened  the  cords  and  she  never  came  back 
any  more.  Isn't  it  awful  ?  And,  bedad, 
Miss,  it's  every  word  true.  I  can  tell  you 
of  a  young  man  I  knew  who  looked  into 
a  window  at  midnight  (after  he  had  been 


90    Qtbojjting  an  Qlbanfcatub  farm. 

playing  cards,  Miss,  gambling  with  the 
other  boys)  and  saw  something  awful 
strange,  and  was  turned  by  ghosts  into  a 
shadow" 

This  seemed  to  be  a  thrilling  theme, 
such  as  Hawthorne  would  have  been  able 
to  weave  into  the  weirdest  of  weird  tales, 
and  I  said,  "  Go  on." 

"Well,  he  used  to  go  playing  cards 
about  three  miles  from  his  home  with  a 
lot  of  young  men,  for  his  mother  wouldn't 
have  cards  played  in  her  house,  and  she 
thought  it  was  wicked,  and  begged  him  not 
to  play.  It's  a  habit  with  the  young  men  of 
Ireland — don't  know  as  it's  the  same  in 
other  countries — and  they  play  for  a  goose 
or  a  chicken.  They  go  to  some  vacant 
house  to  get  away  from  their  fathers, 
they're  so  against  it  at  home.  Why,  my 
brother-in-law  used  to  go  often  to  such  a 
house  on  the  side  of  a  country  road.  Each 
man  would  in  turn  provide  the  candles  to 
play  by,  and  as  this  house  was  said  to  be 


(Boosts.  91 


haunted,  bedad  they  had  it  all  to  them 
selves.  Well,  this  last  night  that  ever 
they  played  there — it  was  Tom's  own 
brother  that  told  me  this — just  as  they 
were  going  to  deal  the  cards,  a  tall  gen 
tleman  came  out  from  a  room  that  had 
been  the  kitchen.  He  walked  right  up  to 
them — he  was  dressed  in  black  cloth 
clothes,  and  wore  a  high  black  hat — and 
came  right  between  two  of  the  men  and 
told  them  to  deal  out  the  cards.  They 
were  too  frightened  even  to  speak,  so  the 
stranger  took  the  cards  himself  and  dealt 
around  to  each  man.  And  afterward  he 
played  with  them ;  then  he  looked  at  ev 
ery  man  in  turn  and  walked  out  of  the 
room.  As  soon  as  he  cleared  out  of  the 
place,  the  men  all  went  away  as  quick  as 
ever  they  could,  and  didn't  stop  to  put 
out  the  lights.  Each  man  cleared  with 
himself  and  never  stopped  to  look  be 
hind.  And  no  one  cared  to  play  cards  in 
that  house  afterward  any  more.  That 


92    Qtbojiting  an  Qlbanboneb  .farm. 

was  Tom's  own  brother ;  and  now  the 
poor  young  man  who  was  going  home  at 
midnight  saw  a  light  in  one  of  the  houses 
by  the  road,  so  he  turned  toward  it, 
thinking  to  light  his  pipe.  Just  before 
knocking,  he  looked  in  at  the  window. 
As  soon  as  he  peeped  in  the  light  went 
out  on  him,  and  still  he  could  see  crowds 
of  people,  as  thick  as  grass,  just  as  you 
see  'em  at  a  fair — so  thick  they  hadn't 
room  to  stand — and  they  kept  swaying 
back  and  forth,  courtesying  like.  The 
kitchen  was  full,  and  looking  through  a 
door  he  saw  a  lot  more  of  fine  ladies  and 
gentlemen  ;  they  were  laughing  and  hav 
ing  great  fun,  running  round  the  table 
setting  out  cups  and  saucers,  just  as  if 
they  were  having  a  ball.  Just  then  a  big 
side  -  board  fell  over  with  a  great  crash, 
and  all  the  fine  people  scampered  away, 
and  all  was  dark.  So  he  turned  away  on 
his  heel  and  was  so  frightened,  his  mother 
said,  he  could  hardly  get  home  from  fear, 


93 


and  he  had  three  whole  miles  to  go. 
Next  day  he  was  thrashing  corn  in  the 
barn  and  something  upset  him  and 
pitched  him  head  foremost  across  the 
flail.  He  rose,  and  three  times  he  was 
pitched  like  that  across  the  flail,  so  he 
gave  up  and  went  home.  His  mother 
asked  him :  '  Johnny,  what  is  the  matter 
with  you  ?  You  do  look  very  bad  ! '  So 
he  up  and  told  her  what  had  happened  to 
him  in  the  barn,  and  what  he  saw  the 
night  before.  And  he  took  suddenly  sick 
and  had  to  keep  his  bed  for  nine  weeks, 
and  when  he  got  up  and  was  walking 
around,  he  wasn't  himself  any  more,  and 
the  sister  says  to  the  mother:  *  Mother, 
I'm  sure  that  it  isn't  Johnny  that's  there. 
It's  only  his  shadow,  for  when  I  look  at 
him,  it  isn't  his  features  or  face,  but  the 
face  of  another  thing.  He  used  to  be  so 
pleasant  and  cheerful,  but  now  he  looks 
like  quite  another  man.  Mother,'  said 
she,  *  we  haven't  Johnny  at  all.'  Soon  he 


94    &fco:pting  an  &bcw&0nefc  farm. 

got  a  little  stronger  and  went  to  the  cap 
ital  town  with  corn.     Several  other  men 
went  also  to  get  their  corn  ground.    They 
were  all  coming  home   together   a  very 
cold  night,  and  the  men  got  up  and  sat 
on  their  sacks  of  corn.    The  other  horses 
walked  on  all  right  with  them,  but  John 
ny's  horses  wouldn't  move,  not  one  step 
while  he  was  on  top  of  the  load.     Well, 
my  dear,  he  called  for  the  rest  to  come 
and  help  him — to  see  if  the  horses  would 
go  for  them.     But  they  would  not  move 
one  step,  though  they  whipped  them  and 
shouted  at  them  to  start  on,  for  Johnny 
he  was  as  heavy  as  lead.     And  he  had  to 
get  down.     Soon   as   he   got  down,  the 
horses   seemed   glad   and   went  off   on  a 
gallop  after  the  rest  of  the  train.    So  they 
all  went  off  together,  and  Johnny  wan 
dered  away  into  the  bogs.     His  friends 
supposed,  of  course,  he  was  coming  on, 
thought  he  was  walking  beside  his  load  ; 
the  snow  was  falling  down,  and  perhaps 


95 


they  were  a  little  afraid.  He  was  left 
behind.  They  scoured  the  country  for 
him  next  day,  and,  bedad,  they  found  him, 
stiff  dead,  sitting  against  a  fence.  There's 
where  they  found  him.  They  brought 
him  on  a  door  to  his  mother.  Oh,  it  was 
a  sad  thing  to  see — to  see  her  cry  and 
hear  her  mourn  !  " 

"  And  what  more  ? "  I  asked. 

"  That's  all.  He  was  waked  and  buried, 
and  that's  what  he  got  for  playing  cards ! 
And  that's  all  as  true  as  ever  could  be 
true,  for  it's  myself  knew  the  old  mother, 
and  she  told  me  it  her  very  self,  and  she 
cried  many  tears  for  her  son." 


CHAPTER  VII. 

DAILY    DISTRACTIONS. 

But  the  sheep  shearing  came,  and  the  hay  season 
next,  and  then  the  harvest  of  small  corn  .  .  .  then 
the  sweating  of  the  apples,  and  the  turning  of  the 
cider  mill  and  the  stacking  of  the  firewood,  and 
netting  of  the  wood-cocks,  and  the  springes  to  be 
mended  in  the  garden  and  by  the  hedgerows,  where 
the  blackbirds  hop  to  the  molehills  in  the  white  Oc 
tober  mornings  and  gray  birds  come  to  look  for 
snails  at  the  time  when  the  sun  is  rising.  It  is  won 
derful  how  Time  runs  away  when  all  these  things, 
and  a  great  many  others,  come  in  to  load  him  down 
the  hill,  and  prevent  him  from  stopping  to  look  about. 
And  I,  for  my  part,  can  never  conceive  how  people 
who  live  in  towns  and  cities,  where  neither  lambs  nor 
birds  are  (except  in  some  shop  windows),  nor  growing 
corn,  nor  meadow  grass,  nor  even  so  much  as  a  stick 
to  cut,  or  a  stile  to  climb  and  sit  down  upon — how 
these  poor  folk  get  through  their  lives  without  being 
utterly  weary  of  them,  and  dying  from  pure  indolence, 
is  a  thing  God  only  knows,  if  his  mercy  allows  him 
to  think  of  it.  LORNA  DOONE. 

A  FARM-HOUSE  looks  on  the  outside  like 
a  quiet  place.  No  men  are  seen  about, 


?Distractiona.  97 


front  windows  are  closely  shaded,  front 
door  locked.  Go  round  to  the  back  door  ; 
nobody  seems  to  be  at  home.  If  by 
chance  you  do  find,  after  long  bruising  of 
knuckles,  that  you  have  roused  an  inmate, 
it  is  some  withered,  sad-faced  old  dame, 
who  is  indifferent  and  hopelessly  deaf,  or 
a  bare-footed,  stupid  urchin,  who  stares 
as  if  you  had  dropped  from  another 
planet,  and  a  cool  "  Dunno  "  is  the  sole 
response  to  all  inquiries. 

All  seems  at  a  dead  standstill.  In 
reality  everything  and  everybody  is  going 
at  full  speed,  transpiring  and  perspiring 
to  such  a  degree  that,  like  a  swiftly  whirl 
ing  top,  it  does  not  appear  to  move. 

Friends  think  of  me  as  not  living,  but 
simply  existing,  and  marvel  that  I  can 
endure  such  monotony.  On  the  contrary, 
I  live  in  a  constant  state  of  excite 
ment,  hurry,  and  necessity  for  immediate 
action. 

The  cows  were  continually  getting  out 


98    Qt&opting  an  Qtbaufconeir  farm. 

of  pasture  and  into  the  corn  ;  the  pigs,  like 
the  chickens,  evinced  decided  preference 
for  the  garden.  The  horse  would  break 
his  halter  and  dart  down  the  street,  or,  if 
in  pasture,  would  leap  the  barbed-wire 
fence,  at  the  risk  of  laming  his  legs  for 
life,  and  dash  into  a  neighbor's  yard  where 
children  and  babies  were  sunning  on  the 
grass. 

Rival  butchers  and  bakers  would  drive 
up  simultaneously  from  different  direc 
tions  and  plead  for  patronage  and  instant 
attention. 

The  vegetables  must  be  gathered  and 
carried  to  market ;  every  animal  was  rav 
enously  hungry  at  all  hours,  and  didn't 
hesitate  to  speak  of  it.  The  magnificent 
peacock  would  wander  off  two  miles, 
choosing  the  railroad  track  for  his  ram 
bles,  and  loved  to  light  on  Si  Evans's 
barn ;  then  a  boy  must  be  detailed  to  re 
cover  the  prize  bird,  said  boy  depending 
on  a  reward.  His  modest-hued  consort 


Distractions.  99 


would   seek  the   deep   hedges  back  of   a 
distant  swamp. 

Friends  would  come  from  a  distance  to 
surprise  and  cheer  me  in  my  lonely  re 
treat  just  at  the  time  that  the  butter 
must  positively  be  made,  while  the  flowers 
were  choking  for  water,  smothered  with 
weeds,  "  pus'ley,"  of  course,  pre-eminent. 
Then  a  book  agent  would  appear,  blind, 
but  doubly  persistent,  with  a  five-dollar 
illustrated  volume  recounting  minutely 
the  Johnstown  horror.  And  one  of  my 
dogs  would  be  apt  at  this  crisis  to  pursue 
and  slay  a  chicken  or  poison  himself  with 
fly-paper.  Every  laboring  man  for  miles 
around  would  come  with  an  air  of  great 
importance  to  confidentially  warn  me 
against  every  other  man  that  could  be 
employed,  with  the  stereotyped  phrase  in 
closing:  "Well,  whatever  you  do"  (as  if 
I  might  be  left  to  do  anything)  "  don't 
hire  John  Smallpate  or  Bill  Storer.  I've 
known  him,  man  and  boy,  for  thirty 


ioo    QUropting  an  Qtbanbonefc  .farm. 

years  ;  you'll  do  well  not  to  trust 
him  !  " 

Yet  these  same  men  who  had  so  villi- 
fied  each  other  could  be  seen  nightly 
lounging  in  front  of  the  grocery,  dis 
cussing  politics  and  spitting  in  sweet 
unison. 

The  general  animosity  of  my  entire 
family  to  each  other  caused  constant  in 
terruptions. 

"  Sandy,"  the  handsome  setter,  loathed 
the  pug,  and  tried  to  bite  his  neck  in  a 
fatal  way.  He  also  chased  the  rabbits, 
trod  on  young  turkeys  so  that  they  were 
no  more,  drove  the  cat  out  of  the  barn 
and  up  a  tree,  barked  madly  at  the  cows, 
enraging  those  placid  animals,  and  doted 
on  frightening  the  horse. 

The  cat  allowed  mice  to  roam  mer 
rily  through  the  grain  bins,  preferring 
robins  and  sparrows,  especially  young 
and  happy  mothers,  to  a  proper  diet ;  was 
fond  of  watching  the  chickens  with  wick- 


ftlailg  UUstracli0n0. 


ed,  malicious,  greedy,  dangerous  eyes, 
and  was  always  ready  to  make  a  sly 
spring  for  my  canaries. 

The  rabbits  (pretty  innocent  little  creat 
ures  I  had  thought  them,  as  I  gazed  at 
their  representatives  of  white  canton  flan 
nel,  solidly  stuffed,  with  such  charming 
eyes  of  pink  beads)  girded  all  my  young 
trees  and  killed  them  before  I  dreamed  of 
such  mischief,  nibbled  at  every  tender 
sprout,  every  swelling  bud,  were  so  agile 
that  they  could  not  be  captured,  and  be 
came  such  a  maddening  nuisance  that  I 
hired  a  boy  to  take  them  away.  I  fully 
understand  the  recent  excitement  of  the 
Australians  over  the  rabbit  scourge  which 
threatened  to  devastate  their  land. 

The  relations  were  strained  between 
my  cows  ;  mother  and  daughter  of  a  noble 
line  ;  they  always  fed  at  opposite  corners 
of  the  field,  indulging  in  serious  fights 
when  they  met. 

My  doves  !     I  am  almost  ready  to  say 


•5TO5: 

e 

>/rx 


102    Qlbojitittg  an  Qtbanboneb  ,farm. 

that  they  were  more  annoying  than  all 
the  rest  of  my  motley  collection,  picked 
all  seeds  out  of  the  ground  faster  than 
they  could  be  put  in,  so  large  spaces 
sowed  with  rye  lay  bare  all  summer,  and 
ate  most  of  the  corn  and  grain  that  was 
intended  to  fatten  and  stimulate  my 
fowls. 

Doves  are  poetical  and  pleasing,  pig 
eons  ditto — in  literature,  and  at  a  safe  dis 
tance  from  one's  own  barn.  It's  a  pretty 
sight  at  sunset  on  a  summer's  eve  to  see 
them  poising,  wheeling,  swirling,  round  a 
neighbor's  barn.  Their  rainbow  hues 
gleam  brightly  in  the  sun  as  they  preen 
their  feathers  or  gently  "  coo-oo,  I  love 
oo,"  on  the  ridge  pole.  I  always  longed 
to  own  some,  but  now  the  illusion  is  past. 
They  have  been  admired  and  petted  for 
ages,  consecrated  as  emblems  of  inno 
cence  and  peace  and  sanctity,  regarded 
as  almost  sacred  from  the  earliest  an 
tiquity.  They  have  been  idealized  and 


iig  ^Distractions.  103 


praised  from  Noah  to  Anacreon,  both  in 
clined  to  inebriety  !  But  in  reality  they 
are  a  dirty,  destructive,  greedy  lot,  and 
though  fanciers  sell  them  at  high  prices, 
they  only  command  twenty-five  cents  per 
pair  when  sold  for  the  market  ! 

The  hens  lost  half  their  feathers,  often 
an  eye,  occasionally  a  life,  in  deadly 
feuds.  My  spunky  little  bantam  game 
cock  was  always  challenging  one  of  my 
monster  roosters  and  laying  him  low,  so 
he  had  to  be  sent  away. 

John,  my  eccentric  assistant,  could 
abide  no  possible  rival,  insulted  every 
man  engaged  to  help  him,  occasionally  in 
dulging  in  a  free  fight  after  too  frequent 
visits  to  the  cider  barrels  of  my  next 
neighbor,  so  he  had  to  follow  the  ban 
tam. 

Another  distress  was  the  constant  calls 
of  natives  with  the  most  undesirable 
things  for  me  to  buy  ;  two  or  three  calls 
daily  for  a  long  time.  Boys  with  eager, 


104    Qlbopting  an  Qtban&anefc  farm. 

ingenuous  faces  bringing  carrier  pigeons 
— pretty  creatures — and  I  had  been  told 
there  was  money  in  pigeons.  I  paid  them 
extortionate  prices  on  account  of  extreme 
ignorance ;  and  the  birds,  of  course,  flew 
home  as  soon  as  released,  to  be  bought 
again  by  some  gullible  amateur.  I  had 
omitted  to  secure  the  names  and  ad 
dresses  of  these  guileless  lads. 

A  sandy  -  haired,  lisping  child  with 
chronic  catarrh  offered  me  a  lot  of  pet 
rats! 

"  I  hear  you  like  pets,"  she  said. 
"  Well,  I've  got  some  tame  rats,  a  father 
and  mother  and  thirteen  little  ones,  and 
a  mother  with  four.  They're  orful  cun 
ning.  Hope  you'll  take  'em." 

A  big,  red-faced,  black-bearded,  and 
determined  man  drove  one  day  into  the 
yard  with  an  immense  wagon,  in  which 
was  standing  a  stupid,  vicious  old  goat, 
and  almost  insisted  on  leaving  it  at  a 
most  ridiculously  high  price. 


?Uistracti0n0.  105 


"  Heard  that  the  woman  that  had  come 
to  live  here  wanted  most  every  animal 
that  Noah  got  into  the  ark  ;  was  sure 
she'd  like  a  goat."  It  was  with  consider 
able  difficulty  that  he  could  be  induced 
to  take  it  away. 

Dogs,  dogs,  dogs  —  from  mastiff  to  mon 
grel,  from  St.  Bernard  to  toy  poodle  — 
the  yard  really  swarmed  with  them  just 
before  the  first  of  May,  when  dog  taxes 
must  be  paid  ! 

A  crow  that  could  talk,  but  rather  ob 
jectionably,  was  offered  me. 

A  pert  little  boy,  surrounded  by  his 
equally  pert  mates,  said,  after  coming 
uninvited  to  look  over  my  assortment: 
"  Got  most  everything,  hain't  ye?  Got  a 
monkey  ?  " 

Then  his  satellites  all  giggled. 

"  No,  not  yet.     Will  not  you  come  in  ?  " 

Second  giggle,  less  hearty. 

A  superannuated  clergyman  walked 
three  miles  and  a  quarter  in  a  heavy  rain, 


106    3tb0pting  an  Qtbanboneb  farm. 

minus  umbrella,  to  bring  me  a  large  and 
common  pitcher,  badly  cracked  and  of 
no  original  value ;  heard  I  was  collecting 
old  china.  Then,  after  making  a  long 
call,  drew  out  a  tiny  package  from  his 
vest  pocket  and  offered  for  sale  two  time- 
worn  cheap  rings  taken  from  his  mother's 
dead  hand.  They  were  mere  ghosts  of 
rings  that  had  once  meant  so  much  of  joy 
or  sorrow,  pathetic  souvenirs,  one  would 
think,  to  a  loving  son.  He  would  also 
sell  me  his  late  father's  old  sermons  for 
a  good  sum  ! 

This  reminded  me  of  Sydney  Smith's 
remark  to  an  old  lady  who  was  sorely 
afflicted  with  insomnia :  "Have  you  ever 
tried  one  of  my  sermons  ?  " 

Perhaps  I  have  said  enough  to  prove 
that  life  in  a  bucolic  solitude  may  be 
something  more  varied  than  is  generally — 
"  Ellen  don't  let  that  old  peddler  come 
into  the  house,  say  we  want  nothing,  and 
then  tell  the  ladies  I'll  be  down  directly — 


Distractions.  107 


and,  O  Ellen,  call  Tom  !  Those  ducks  are 
devouring  his  new  cabbage  -  plants  and 
one  of  the  calves  has  got  over  the  stone 
wall  and  —  what  ? 

"  He's  gone  to  Dog  Corner  for  the  cow- 
doctor." 

—  Yes,  more  varied  than  is  generally 
supposed  ! 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

THE  PROSE  OF  NEW   ENGLAND   FARM  LIFE. 

A.  life  whose  parlors  have  always  been  closed. 

IK  MARVEL. 

Sunshine  is  tabooed  in  the  front  room  of  the  house. 
The  "  damp  dignity"  of  the  best-room  has  been  well 
described  :  "  Musty  smells,  stiffness,  angles,  absence 
of  sunlight.  What  is  there  to  talk  about  in  a  room 
dark  as  the  Domdaniel,  except  where  one  crack  in  a 
reluctant  shutter  reveals  a  stand  of  wax  flowers  under 
glass,  and  a  dimly  descried  hostess  who  evidently 
waits  only  your  departure  to  extinguish  that  solitary 
ray  ?  " 

AT  a  recent  auction  I  obtained  twenty- 
one  volumes  of  State  Agricultural  Re 
ports  for  seventeen  cents ;  and  what  I 
read  in  them  of  the  Advantages  of  Ru 
ral  Pursuits,  The  Dignity  .pf  Labor, 
The  Relation  of  Agriculture  to  Longev 
ity  and  to  Nations,  and,  above  all,  of  the 


Prose  of  Neto  €nglano  farm  Cife.  109 

Golden  Egg,  seem  decidedly  florid,  un 
practical,  misleading,  and  very  little  per 
manent  popularity  can  be  gained  by  such 
self-interested  buncombe  from  these  elo 
quent  orators. 

The  idealized  farmer,  as  he  is  depicted 
by  these  white-handed  rhetoricians  who, 
like  John  Paul,  "  would  never  lay  hand  to 
a  plow,  unless  said  plow  should  actually 
pursue  him  to  a  second  story,  and  then 
lay  hands  on  it  only  to  throw  it  out  of 
the  window,"  and  the  phlegmatic,  over 
worked,  horny-handed  tillers  of  the  soil 
are  no  more  alike  than  Fenimore  Coop 
er's  handsome,  romantic,  noble,  and  im 
pressive  red  man  of  the  forest  and  the 
actual  Sioux  or  Apache,  as  regarded  by 
the  cowboy  of  the  West. 

It's  all  work,  with  no  play  and  no 
proper  pay,  for  Western  competition  now 
prevents  all  chance  of  decent  profits. 
Little  can  be  laid  urj  for  old  age,  except 
by  the  most  painful  economy  and  daily 


no    ^botin    an  ^banboneb  farm. 


scrimping  ;  and  how  can  the  children  con 
sent  to  stay  on,  starving  body  and  soul  ? 
That  explains  the  3,318  abandoned  farms 
in  Maine  at  present.  And  the  farmers' 
wives  !  what  monotonous,  treadmill  lives  ! 
Constant  toil  with  no  wages,  no  allow 
ance,  no  pocket  money,  no  vacations,  no 
pleasure  trips  to  the  city  nearest  them, 
little  of  the  pleasures  of  correspondence; 
no  time  to  write,  unless  a  near  relative  is 
dead  or  dying.  Some  one  says  that  their 
only  chance  for  social  life  is  in  going  to 
some  insane  asylum  !  There  have  been 
four  cases  of  suicide  in  farmers'  families 
near  me  within  eighteen  months. 

This  does  not  apply  to  the  fortunate 
farmer  who  inherited  money  and  is 
shrewd  enough  to  keep  and  increase  it. 
Nor  to  the  market  gardener,  who  raises 
vegetables  under  glass  ;  nor  to  the  own 
ers  of  large  nurseries.  These  do  make  a 
good  living,  and  are  also  able  to  save 
something. 


J)ro0e  of  Nero  (Knglanb  farm  Cife.  1 1 1 

In  general,  it  is  all  one  steady  rush  of 
work  from  March  to  November ;  unceas 
ing,  uncomplaining  activity  for  the  barest 
support,  followed  by  three  months  of 
hibernation  and  caring  for  the  cattle. 
Horace  Greeley  said  :  "  If  our  most  ener 
getic  farmers  would  abstract  ten  hours 
each  per  week  from  their  incessant  drudg 
ery  and  devote  them  to  reading  and  re 
flection  in  regard  to  their  noble  calling, 
they  would  live  to  a  better  purpose  and 
bequeath  better  examples  to  their  chil 
dren." 

It  may  have  been  true  long  years  ago 
that  no  shares,  factory,  bank,  or  railroad 
paid  better  dividends  than  the  plowshare, 
but  it  is  the  veriest  nonsense  now. 

Think  of  the  New  England  climate  in 
summer.  Rufus  Choate  describes  it  elo 
quently  :  "  Take  the  climate  of  New  Eng 
land  in  summer,  hot  to-day,  cold  to-mor 
row,  mercury  at  eighty  degrees  in  the 
shade  in  the  morning,  with  a  sultry  wind 
8 


ii2    Qtbopting  an  Slbanboneir  farm. 

southwest.  In  three  hours  more  a  sea 
turn,  wind  at  east,  a  thick  fog  from  the 
bottom  of  the  ocean,  and  a  fall  of  forty 
degrees.  Now  so  dry  as  to  kill  all  the 
beans  in  New  Hampshire,  then  floods 
carrying  off  all  the  dams  and  bridges  on 
the  Penobscot  and  Androscoggin.  Snow 
in  Portsmouth  in  July,  and  the  next  day 
a  man  and  a  yoke  of  oxen  killed  by  light 
ning  in  Rhode  Island.  You  would  think 
the  world  was  coming  to  an  end.  But  we 
go  along.  Seed  time  and  harvest  never 
fail.  We  have  the  early  and  the  latter 
rains ;  the  sixty  days  of  hot  corn  weather 
are  pretty  sure  to  be  measured  out  to  us ; 
the  Indian  summer,  with  its  bland  south 
winds  and  mitigated  sunshine,  brings  all 
up,  and  about  the  25th  of  November, 
being  Thursday,  a  grateful  people  gath 
er  about  the  Thanksgiving  board,  with 
hearts  full  of  gratitude  for  the  blessings 
that  have  been  vouchsafed  to  them." 
Poets  love  to  sing  of  the  sympathy  of 


JJrose  of  Nero  <£nglcm&  -farm  Cife.   113 

Nature.  I  think  she  is  decidedly  at  odds 
with  the  farming  interests  of  the  country. 
At  any  rate,  her  antipathy  to  me  was 
something  intense  and  personal.  That 
mysterious  stepmother  of  ours  was  really 
riled  by  my  experiments  and  determined 
to  circumvent  every  agricultural  ambition. 

She  detailed  a  bug  for  every  root, 
worms  to  build  nests  on  every  tree,  others 
to  devour  every  leaf,  insects  to  attack 
every  flower,  drought  or  deluge  to  ruin 
the  crops,  grasshoppers  to  finish  every 
thing  that  was  left. 

Potato  bugs  swooped  down  on  my 
fields  by  tens  of  thousands,  and  when 
somewhat  thinned  in  ranks  by  my  un 
ceasing  war,  would  be  re-enforced  from  a 
neighbor's  fields,  once  actually  fording 
my  lakelet  to  get  to  my  precious  potato 
patch.  The  number  and  variety  of  de 
vouring  pests  connected  with  each  vege 
table  are  alarming.  Here  are  a  few 
connected  closely  with  the  homely  cab- 


n4    Qlbopting  an  Qtbatrtroneb  farm. 

bage,  as  given  by  a  noted  helminthologist 
under  the  head  of  "  Cut-worms  "  : 

"Granulated,"  " shagreened,"  "white," 
"marked,"  "greasy,"  "glassy,"  "speck 
led,"  "  variegated,"  "  wavy,"  "  striped," 
"  harlequin,"  "  imbricated,"  "  tarnished." 
The  "  snout  beetle  "  is  also  a  deadly  foe. 

To  realize  this  horror,  this  worse  than 
Pharaoh  plague,  you  must  either  try  a 
season  of  farming  or  peruse  octavo  vol 
umes  on  Insects  injurious  to  Vegetation, 
fully  illustrated. 

In  those  you  may  gain  a  faint  idea  of 
the  "skippers,"  "stingers,"  "soothsayers," 
"walking  sticks  or  specters,"  "saw  flies 
and  slugs,"  "boring  caterpillars,"  "horn- 
tailed  wood  wasps,"  etc.,  etc.,  etc.,  etc., 
etc. — a  never-ending  list.  The  average 
absolute  loss  of  the  farmers  of  this  coun 
try  from  such  pests  is  fully  one  million 
dollars  per  annum. 

Gail  Hamilton  said  of  her  squashes : 

"  They  appeared  above-ground,  large- 


flrose  of  Nero  (England  .farm  £ifc.   115 

lobed  and  vigorous.  Large  and  vigorous 
appeared  the  bugs,  all  gleaming  in  green 
and  gold,  like  the  wolf  on  the  fold,  and 
stopped  up  all  the  stomata  and  ate  up  all 
the  parenchyma,  till  my  squash  -  leaves 
looked  as  if  they  had  grown  for  the  sole 
purpose  of  illustrating  net-veined  organi 
zations.  A  universal  bug  does  not  indi 
cate  a  special  want  of  skill  in  any  one." 

Not  liking  to  crush  the  bug  between 
thumb  and  finger  as  advised,  she  tried 
drowning  them.  She  says:  "The  moment 
they  touched  the  water  they  all  spread 
unseen  wings  and  flew  away.  I  should 
not  have  been  much  more  surprised  to  see 
Halicarnassus  soaring  over  the  ridge  pole. 
I  had  not  the  slightest  idea  they  could  fly  " 

Then  the  aphides !  Exhausters  of 
strength — vine  fretters — plant  destroyers ! 
One  aphis,  often  the  progenitor  of  over 
five  thousand  million  aphides  in  a  single 
season.  This  seems  understated,  but  I 
accept  it  as  the  aphidavit  of  another 


n6    2Ur0jjting  an  Qlbanboneb  farm. 

noted  helminthologist.  I  might  have  im 
agined  Nature  had  a  special  grudge 
against  me  if  I  had  not  recalled  Emer 
son's  experience.  He  says :  "  With  brow 
bent,  with  firm  intent,  I  go  musing  in  the 
garden  walk.  I  stoop  to  pick  up  a  weed 
that  is  choking  the  corn,  find  there  were 
two  ;  close  behind  is  a  third,  and  I  reach 
out  my  arm  to  a  fourth  ;  behind  that  there 
are  four  thousand  and  one ! 

"  Rose  bugs  and  wasps  appear  best  when 
flying.  I  admired  them  most  when  flying 
away  from  my  garden." 

Horace  Greeley  said  that  u  No  man  who 
harbors  caterpillars  has  any  moral  right 
to  apples."  But  one  sees  whole  orchards 
destroyed  in  this  way  for  lack  of  time  to 
attack  such  a  big  job.  Farmers  have 
been  unjustly  attacked  by  city  critics  who 
do  not  understand  the  situation.  There 
was  much  fine  writing  last  year  in  regard 
to  the  sin  and  shame  of  cutting  down  the 
pretty,  wild  growth  of  shrubs,  vines,  and 


Prose  of  Nero  (Englanb  iFarm  £ife.   117 

flowers  along  the  wayside,  so  picturesque 
to  the  summer  tourist.  The  tangle  of 
wild  grape,  clematis,  and  woodbine  is  cer 
tainly  pretty,  but  underneath  is  sure  to  be 
found  a  luxuriant  growth  of  thistle,  wild 
carrot,  silk  weed,  mullein,  chickweed,  tan 
sy,  and  plantain,  which,  if  allowed  to  seed 
and  disseminate  themselves,  would  soon 
ruin  the  best  farms.  There  is  a  deadly 
foe,  an  army  of  foes,  hiding  under  these 
luxuriant  festoons  and  masses  of  cheerful 
flowers. 

Isn't  it  strange  and  sad  and  pitiful,  that 
it  is  the  summer  guest  who  alone  enjoys 
the  delights  of  summering  in  the  coun 
try  ?  There  is  no  time  for  rest,  for  recre 
ation,  for  flowers,  for  outdoor  pleasures, 
for  the  average  farmer  and  his  family. 
You  seldom  see  any  bright  faces  at  the 
windows,  which  are  seldom  opened — only 
a  glimpse  here  and  there  of  a  sad,  hag 
gard  creature,  peering  out  for  curosity. 
Strange  would  it  be  to  hear  peals  of 


n8    2tb0ptin    an  Qtbanboneb  farm. 


merry  laughter;  stranger  still  to  see  a 
family  enjoying  a  meal  on  the  piazza  or 
a  game  on  the  grass.  As  for  flowers,  they 
are  valued  no  more  than  weeds  ;  the 
names  of  the  most  common  are  unknown. 
I  asked  in  vain  a  dozen  people  last 
summer,  what  that  flower  was  called, 
pointing  to  the  ubiquitous  Joe  Rye  weed 
or  pink  motherwort.  At  last  I  asked  one 
man,  who  affected  to  know  everything  — 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  know  it." 

"What  is  it  ?"  I  persisted. 

"  Well,  I  know  it  just  as  well,  but  can't 
just  now  get  the  name  out."  A  pause, 
then,  with  great  superiority  :  "  I  d  rather 
see  a  potato  field  in  full  bloom,  than  all 
the  flowers  in  the  world." 

Perhaps  some  of  Tolstoi's  disciples  may 
yet  solve  the  problem  of  New  England's 
abandoned  farms.  He  believes  that  ev 
ery  able-bodied  man  should  labor  with 
his  own  hands  and  in  "  the  sweat  of  his 
brow  "  to  produce  his  own  living  direct 


c  oi  N'ctxj  (£nglanb  farm  £ife.  119 


from  the  soil.  He  dignifies  agriculture 
above  all  other  means  of  earning  a  living, 
and  would  have  artificial  employments 
given  up.  "Back  to  the  land,"  he  cries; 
and  back  he  really  goes,  daily  working 
with  the  peasants.  But  'tis  a  solemn, 
almost  tragical  experience,  not  much  bet 
ter  than  the  fate  of  the  Siberian  exile. 
Rise  at  dawn ;  work  till  dark  ;  eat — go  to 
bed  too  tired  to  read  a  paper ; — and  no 
money  in  it. 

Let  these  once  prosperous  farms  be 
given  up  to  Swedish  colonies,  hard  work 
ing  and  industrious,  who  can  do  better 
here  than  in  their  own  country  and  have 
plenty  of  social  life  among  themselves,  or 
let  wealthy  men  purchase  half  a  dozen  of 
these  places  to  make  a  park,  or  two  score 
for  a  hunting  ground — or  let  unattached 
women  of  middle  age  occupy  them  and 

tf^"t*— •**    Q'"1' 

support  themselves  by  raising  poultry. 
Men  are  making  handsome  incomes  from 

this  business — women   can  do  the  same. 

» Cfl^f 

**  M 


120    &b0jjting  an  &banb0tteb  farm. 

The  language  of  the  poultry  magazines, 
by  the  way,  is  equally  sentimental  and 
efflorescent  with  that  of  the  speeches  at 
agricultural  fairs,  sufficiently  so  to  sicken 
one  who  has  once  accepted  it  as  reliable, 
as  for  instance :  "  The  individual  must  be 
very  abnormal  in  his  tastes  if  they  can  not 
be  catered  to  by  our  feathered  tribe." 
"  To  their  owner  they  are  a  thing  of 
beauty  and  a  joy  forever.  Their  ways 
are  interesting,  their  language  fascinat 
ing,  and  their  lives  from  the  egg  to  the 
mature  fowl  replete  with  constant  sur 
prises."  * 

"To  simply  watch  them  as  they  pass 
from  stage  to  stage  of  development  fills 
the  mind  of  every  sane  person  with  pleas 
ure."  One  poultry  crank  insists  that  each 
hen  must  be  so  carefully  studied  that  she 
can  be  understood  and  managed  as  an 
individual,  and  speaks  of  his  hens  hav- 

*  This  clause  is  true. 


flrose  of  New  (England  .farm  £ife.   121 

ing  at  times  an  "anxious  nervous  ex 
pression  ! " 

"  Yes,  it  is  where  the  hens  sing  all  the 
day  long  in  the  barn-yard  that  throws  off 
the  stiff  ways  of  our  modern  civilization 

and  makes  us  feel  that  we  are  home  and  /"fi^ 

u 

can  rest  and  play  and  grow  young  once 
more.  How  many  men  and  women  have 
regained  lost  health  and  spirits  in  keep 
ing  hens,  in  the  excitement  of  finding  and 
gathering  eggs !  " 

"It  is  not  the  natural  laying  season 
when  snows  lie  deep  on  field  and  hill, 
when  the  frost  tingles  in  sparkling  beads 
from  every  twig,  when  the  clear  streams 
bear  up  groups  of  merry  skaters,"  etc. 

After  my  pathetic  experience  with 
chickens,  who  after  a  few  days  of  downy 
content  grew  ill,  and  gasped  until  they 
gave  up  the  ghost;  ducklings,  who  pro 
gressed  finely  for  several  weeks,  then 
turned  over  on  their  backs  and  flopped 
helplessly  unto  the  end ;  or,  surviving  that 


122    Qtfcojtittj  an  Qlbanbotteb  farm. 


critical  period,  were  found  in  the  drink 
ing  trough,  "  drowned,  dead,  because  they 
couldn't  keep  their  heads  above  water  "  ; 
turkeys  who  flourished  to  a  certain  age, 
then  grew  feeble  and  phantom-like  and 
faded  out  of  life,  I  weary  of  gallinaceous 
rhodomontade,  and  crave  "  pointers  "  for 
my  actual  needs. 

I  still  read  "  Crankin's  "  circulars  with 
a.  thrill  of  enthusiasm  because  his  facts 
are  so  cheering.  For  instance,  from  his 
latest  :  "  We  have  some  six  thousand 
ducklings  out  now,  confined  in  yards 
with  wire  netting  eighteen  inches  high. 
The  first  lot  went  to  market  May  loth 
and  netted  forty  cents  per  pound.  These 
ducklings  were  ten  weeks  old  and  dressed 
on  an  average  eleven  pounds  per  pair. 
One  pair  dressed  fourteen  pounds." 
Isn't  that  better  than  selling  milk  at  two 
and  a  half  cents  per  quart  ?  And  no 
money  can  be  made  on  vegetables  unless 
they  are  raised  under  glass  in  advance  of 


prose  of  tfeto  (Englano  farm  fife.  123 

the  season.  I  know,  for  did  I  not  begin 
with  "  pie  plant,"  with  which  every  mar 
ket  was  glutted,  at  one  cent  per  pound, 
and  try  the  entire  list,  with  disgustingly 
low  prices,  exposed  to  depressing  com 
parison  and  criticism  ?  When  endeavor 
ing  to  sell,  one  of  the  visiting  butchers, 
in  reply  to  my  petition  that  he  would 
buy  some  of  my  vegetables,  said :  "  Well 
now,  Marm,  you  see  just  how  it  is;  I've 
got  more'n  I  can  sell  now,  and  women 
keep  offering  more  all  the  way  along.  I 
tell  'em  I  can't  buy  'em,  but  I'll  haul  yem 
off  for  ye  if  ye  want  to  get  rid  of  'em!  " 
So  much  for  market  gardening  at  a  dis 
tance  from  city  demands. 

But  ducks !  Sydney  Smith,  at  the  close 
of  his  life,  said  he  "  had  but  one  illusion 
left,  and  that  was  the  Archbishop  of  Can 
terbury."  I  still  believe  in  Crankin  and 
duck  raising.  Let  me  see:  "One  pair 
dressed  fourteen  pounds,  netted  forty 
cents  per  pound."  I'll  order  one  of 


124    &boptin    an  &banboneb  farm. 


Crankin's  "  Monarch  "  incubators  and  be 
gin  a  poultry  farm  anew. 

"  Dido  et  dux"  and  so  do  Boston  epi 
cures.  I'll  sell  at  private  sales,  not  for 
hotels  !  I  used  to  imagine  myself  sup 
plying  one  of  the  large  hotels  and  saw 
on  the  menu  : 

"  Tame  duck  and  apple  sauce  (from  the 
famous  'Breezy  Meadows'  farm)."  But 
I  inquired  of  one  of  the  proprietors  what 
he  would  give,  and  "fifteen  cents  per 
pound  for  poultry  dressed  and  delivered  " 
gave  me  a  combined  attack  of  chills  and 
hysterics. 

Think  of  my  chickens,  from  those  prize 
hens  (three  dollars  each)  —  my  chickens, 
fed  on  eggs  hard  boiled,  milk,  Indian 
meal,  cracked  corn,  sun-flower  seed,  oats, 
buckwheat,  the  best  of  bread,  selling  at 
fifteen  cents  per  pound,  and  I  to  pay  ex 
press  charges!  Is  there,  is  there  any 
"  money  in  hens  ?  " 

To  show  how  a  child  would  revel  in  a 


Prose  of  New  (Englanb  farm  Cife.   125 

little  rational  enjoyment  on  a  farm,  read 
this  dear  little  poem  of  James  Whitcomb 
Riley's : 

AT  AUNTY'S   HOUSE. 

One  time  when  we's  at  aunty's  house — 

'Way  in  the  country — where 
They's  ist  but  woods  and  pigs  and  cows, 

An'  all's  outdoors  and  air  ! 
An  orchurd  swing  ;  an*  churry  trees, 

An'  churries  in  'em  !     Yes,  an'  these 
Here  red-head  birds  steal  all  they  please 

An'  tech  'em  if  you  dare  ! 
Wy  wunst,  one  time  when  we  wuz  there, 

We  et  out  on  the  porch  ! 

Wite  where  the  cellar  door  wuz  shut 

The  table  wuz  ;  an'  I 
Let  aunty  set  by  me  an'  cut 

My  wittles  up — an'  pie. 
Tuz  awful  funny  !     I  could  see 

The  red  heads  in  the  churry  tree ; 
An*  bee-hives,  where  you  got  to  be 

So  keerful  going  by  ; 
An'  comp'ny  there  an'  all !    An'  we— 

We  et  out  on  the  torch  ! 

An' — I  ist  et  p'surves  an'  things 

'At  ma  don't  'low  me  to — 
An'  chickun  gizzurds  (don't  like  wings 

Like  parunts  does,  do  you  ?) 


126    ^opting  an  &banb0tteb  farm. 

An'  all  the  time  the  wind  blowed  there 
An'  I  could  feel  it  in  my  hair, 

An'  ist  smell  clover  ever'where  ! 
An'  a  old  red  head  flew 

Purt'  nigh  wite  over  my  high  chair, 
When  we  et  out  on  the  porch  t 


CHAPTER   IX. 

THE    PASSING    OF    THE    PEACOCKS. 

I  would  rather  look  at  a  peacock  than  eat  him. 
The  feathers  of  an  angel  and  the  voice  of  a  devil. 

THE  story  of  this  farm  would  not  be 
complete  without  a  brief  rehearsal  of  my 
experiences,  exciting,  varied,  and  tragic, 
resulting  from  the  purchase  of  a  magnifi 
cent  pair  of  peacocks. 

My  honest  intention  on  leasing  my 
forty-dollars-a-year  paradise  was  simply 
to  occupy  the  quaint  old  house  for  a  sea 
son  or  two  as  a  relief  from  the  usual 
summer  wanderings.  I  would  plant  noth 
ing  but  a  few  hardy  flowers  of  the  old- 
fashioned  kind — an  economical  and  pro 
longed  picnic.  In  this  way  I  could  easily 
save  in  three  years  sufficient  funds  to 
make  a  grand  tour  du  monde. 

That  was  my  plan! 


128    Qlbopting  an  Qtbanbonefc  farm. 

For  some  weeks  I  carried  out  this  reso 
lution,  until  an  event  occurred,  which 
changed  the  entire  current  of  thought, 
and  transformed  a  quiet,  rural  retreat 
into  a  scene  of  frantic  activity  and  gigan 
tic  undertaking. 

In  the  early  summer  I  attended  a 
poultry  show  at  Rooster,  Mass.,  and,  in 
a  moment  of  impulsive  enthusiasm,  was 
so  foolish  as  to  pause  and  admire  and 
long  for  a  prize  peacock,  until  I  was  fair 
ly  and  hopelessly  hypnotized  by  its  brill 
iant  plumage. 

I  reasoned:  Anybody  can  keep  hens, 
"  me  and  Crankin "  can  raise  ducks, 
geese  thrive  naturally  with  me,  but  a 
peacock  is  a  rare  and  glorious  possession. 
The  proud  scenes  he  is  associated  with 
in  mythology,  history,  and  art  rushed 
through  my  mind  with  whirlwind  rapidity 
as  I  stood  debating  the  question.  The 
favorite  bird  of  Juno — she  called  the  me 
tallic  spots  on  its  tail  the  eyes  of  Argus — 


passing  0f  tlje  peacocks.    129 


imported  by  Solomon  to  Palestine,  essen 
tially  regal.  Kings  have  used  peacocks 
as  their  crests,  have  worn  crowns  of  their 
feathers.  Queens  and  princesses  have 
flirted  gorgeous  peacock  fans;  the  pav- 
an,  a  favorite  dance  in  the  days  of  Louis 
le  Grand,  imitated  its  stately  step.  In 
the  days  of  chivalry  the  most  solemn 
oath  was  taken  on  the  peacock's  body, 
roasted  whole  and  adorned  with  its  gay 
feathers,  as  Shallow  swore  "  by  cock  and 
pie."  I  saw  the  fairest  of  all  the  fair 
dames  at  a  grand  mediaeval  banquet 
proudly  bearing  the  bird  to  the  table. 
The  woman  who  hesitates  is  lost.  I 
bought  the  pair,  and  ordered  them  boxed 
for  "Breezy  Meadows." 

On  the  arrival  of  the  royal  pair  at  my 
'umble  home,  all  its  surroundings  be 
gan  to  lose  the  charm  of  rustic  sim 
plicity,  and  appear  shabby,  inappropri 
ate,  and  unendurable.  It  became  evi 
dent  that  the  entire  place  must  be  raised, 


i3°    Qtbopting  an  Qtbanboneb  -farm. 

and  at  once,  to  the  level  of  those  pea 
cocks. 

The  house  and  barn  were  painted  (co 
lonial  yellow)  without  a  moment's  delay. 
An  ornamental  piazza  was  added,  all  the 
paths  were  broadened  and  graveled,  and 
even  terraces  were  dreamed  of,  as  I  re 
called  the  terraces  where  Lord  Beacons- 
field's  peacocks  used  to  sun  themselves 
and  display  their  beauties — Queen  Vic 
toria  now  has  a  screen  made  of  their 
feathers. 

My  expensive  pets  felt  their  degrada 
tion  in  spite  of  my  best  efforts  and  deter 
mined  to  sever  their  connection  with  such 
a  plebeian  place. 

Beauty  (I  ought  to  have  called  him  Ab 
salom  or  Alcibiades),  as  soon  as  let  out  of 
his  traveling  box,  displayed  to  an  admir 
ing  crowd  a  tail  so  long  it  might  be 
called  a  "  serial,"  gave  one  contemptuous 
glance  at  the  premises,  and  departed  so 
rapidly,  by  running  and  occasional  flights, 


passing  of  tlje  peacocks.    131 


that  three  men  and  a  boy  were  unable 
to  catch  up  with  him  for  several  hours. 
Belle  was  not  allowed  her  liberty,  as  we 
saw  more  trouble  ahead.  A  large  yard, 
inclosed  top  and  sides  with  wire  netting, 
at  last  restrained  their  roving  ambition. 
But  they  were  not  happy.  Peacocks  dis 
dain  a  "  roost  "  and  seek  the  top  of  some 
tall  tree  ;  they  are  also  rovers  by  nature 
and  hate  confinement.  They  pined  and 
failed,  and  seemed  slowly  dying  ;  so  I 
had  to  let  them  out.  Total  cost  of  pea 
cock  hunts  by  the  boys  of  the  village, 
$11.33.  I  found  that  Beauty  was  happy 
only  when  admiring  himself,  or  deep  in 
mischief.  His  chief  delight  was  to  mount 
the  stone  wall,  and  utter  his  raucous  note, 
again  and  again,  as  a  carriage  passed, 
often  scaring  the  horses  into  dangerous 
antics,  and  causing  severe,  if  not  profane 
criticism.  Or  he  would  steal  slyly  into  a 
neighbor's  barn  and  kill  half  a  dozen 
chickens  at  a  time.  He  was  awake  every 


i32    Qlbopting  an  Qlbanboneb  .farm. 

morning  by  four  o'clock,  and  would  an 
nounce  the  glories  of  the  coming  dawn 
by  a  series  of  ear-splitting  notes,  disturb 
ing  not  only  all  my  guests,  but  the  va 
rious  families  within  range,  until  com 
plaints  and  petitions  were  sent  in.  He 
became  a  nuisance — but  how  could  he  be 
muzzled  ? 

And  he  was  so  gloriously  handsome ! 
Visitors  from  town  would  come  expressly 
to  see  him.  School  children  would  troop 
into  my  yard  on  Saturday  afternoons,  "to 
see  the  peacock  spread  his  tail,"  which 
he  often  capriciously  refused  to  do.  As 
soon  as  they  departed,  somewhat  dis 
appointed  in  "my  great  moral  show," 
Beauty  would  go  to  a  large  window  on 
the  ground  floor  of  the  barn  and  parade 
up  and  down,  displaying  his  beauties  for 
his  own  gratification.  At  last  he  fancied 
he  saw  a  rival  in  this  brilliant,  irridescent 
reflection  and  pecked  fiercely  at  the  glass, 
breaking  several  panes. 


passing  of  ttye  peacocks.    133 


Utterly  selfish,  he  would  keep  all  dainty 
bits  for  himself,  leaving  the  scraps  for  his 
devoted  mate,  who  would  wait  meekly  to 
eat  what  he  chose  to  leave.  She  made 
up  for  this  wifely  self-abnegation  by 
frequenting  the  hen  houses.  She  would 
watch  patiently  by  the  side  of  a  hen  on 
her  nest,  and  as  soon  as  an  egg  was  de 
posited,  would  remove  it  for  her  lunch 
eon.  She  liked  raw  eggs,  and  six  were 
her  usual  limit. 

There  is  a  deal  of  something  closely 
akin  to  human  nature  in  barn-yard  fowls. 
It  was  irresistibly  ludicrous  to  see  the 
peacock  strutting  about  in  the  sunshine, 
his  tail  expanded  in  fullest  glory,  making 
a  curious  rattle  of  triumph  as  he  paraded, 
while  my  large  white  Holland  turkey 
gobbler,  who  had  been  molting  severely 
and  was  almost  denuded  as  to  tail  feath 
ers,  would  attempt  to  emulate  his  display, 
and  would  follow  him  closely,  his  wattles 
swelling  and  reddening  with  fancied  sue- 


i34    Qtb  opting  an  Qlbanboneo  farm. 

cess,  making  all  this  fuss  about  what  had 
been  a  fine  array,  but  now  was  reduced 
to  five  scrubby,  ragged,  very  dirty  rem 
nants  of  feathers.  He  fancied  himself 
equally  fine,  and  was  therefore  equally 
happy. 

Next  came  the  molting  period. 

Pliny  said  long  ago  of  the  peacock : 
"  When  he  hath  lost  his  taile,  he  hath  no 
delight  to  come  abroad,"  but  I  knew 
nothing  of  this  peculiarity,  supposing 
that  a  peacock's  tail,  once  grown,  was  a 
permanent  ornament.  On  the  contrary, 
if  a  peacock  should  live  one  hundred 
and  twenty  years  (and  his  longevity  is 
something  phenomenal)  he  would  have 
one  hundred  and  seventeen  new  and  in 
teresting  tails — enough  to  start  a  circulat 
ing  library.  Yes,  Beauty's  pride  and  mine 
had  a  sad  fall  as  one  by  one  the  long 
plumes  were  dropped  in  road  and  field 
and  garden.  He  should  have  been  caught 
and  confined,  and  the  feathers,  all  loose 


STlje  passing  of  ilje  JJeacocke.    135 

at  once,  should  have  been  pulled  out  at 
one  big  pull  and  saved  intact  for  fans 
and  dust  brushes,  and  adornment  of  mir 
rors  and  fire-places.  Soon  every  one  was 
gone,  and  the  mortified  creature  now  hid 
away  in  the  corn,  and  behind  shrubbery, 
disappearing  entirely  from  view,  save  as 
hunger  necessitated  a  brief  emerging. 

This  tailless  absentee  was  not  what  I 
had  bought  as  the  champion  prize  winner. 
And  Belle,  after  laying  four  eggs,  refused 
to  set.  But  I  put  them  under  a  turkey, 
and,  to  console  myself  and  re-enforce  my 
position  as  an  owner  of  peacocks,  I  began 
to  study  peacock  lore  and  literature.  I 
read  once  more  of  the  throne  of  the  great 
est  of  all  the  moguls  at  Delhi,  India. 

"  The  under  part  of  the  canopy  is  em 
broidered  with  pearls  and  diamonds,  with 
a  fringe  of  pearls  round  about.  On  the 
top  of  the  canopy,  which  is  made  like  an 
arch  with  four  panes,  stands  a  peacock 
with  his  tail  spread,  consisting  all  of  sap- 


i36    2tb  opting  an  Qlbanboneb  .farm. 

phires  and  other  proper-colored  stones; 
the  body  is  of  beaten  gold  enchased  with 
several  jewels,  and  a  great  ruby  upon 
his  breast,  at  which  hangs  a  pearl  that 
weighs  fifty  carats.  On  each  side  of  the 
peacock  stand  two  nosegays  as  high  as 
the  bird,  consisting  of  several  sorts  of 
flowers,  all  of  beaten  gold  enameled. 
When  the  king  seats  himself  upon  the 
throne,  there  is  a  transparent  jewel  with 
a  diamond  appendant,  of  eighty  or  nine 
ty  carats,  encompassed  with  rubies  and 
emeralds,  so  hung  that  it  is  always  in  his 
eye.  The  twelve  pillars  also  that  support 
the  canopy  are  set  with  rows  of  fair 
pearls,  round,  and  of  an  excellent  water, 
that  weigh  from  six  to  ten  carats  apiece. 
At  the  distance  of  four  feet  upon  each 
side  of  the  throne  are  placed  two  para 
sols  or  umbrellas,  the  handles  whereof 
are  about  eight  feet  high,  covered  with 
diamonds ;  the  parasols  themselves  are  of 
crimson  velvet,  embroidered  and  stringed 


passing  of  tlje  JJeacacks.    137 


with  pearls."  This  is  the  famous  throne 
which  Tamerlane  began  and  Shah  Jahan 
finished,  which  is  really  reported  to  have 
cost  a  hundred  and  sixty  million  five  hun 
dred  thousand  livres  (thirty-two  million 
one  hundred  thousand  dollars). 

I  also  gloated  over  the  description  of 
that  famous  London  dining-room,  known 
to  the  art  world  as  the  "  Peacock  Room," 
designed  by  Whistler.  Panels  to  the 
right  and  left  represent  peacocks  with 
their  tails  spread  fan-wise,  advancing  in 
perspective  toward  the  spectator,  one  be 
hind  the  other,  the  peacocks  in  gold  and 
the  ground  in  blue. 

I  could  not  go  so  extensively  into  inte 
rior  decoration,  and  my  mania  for  mak 
ing  the  outside  of  the  house  and  the 
grounds  highly  decorative  had  received 
a  severe  lesson  in  the  verdict,  overheard 
by  me,  as  I  stood  in  the  garden,  made  by 
a  gawky  country  couple  who  were  out  for 
a  Sunday  drive. 


an  Qtbanboneb  farm. 


As  Warner  once  said  to  me,  "  young  love 
in  the  country  is  a  very  solemn  thing," 
and  this  shy,  serious  pair  slowed  up  as 
they  passed,  to  see  my  place.  The  piaz 
za  was  gay  with  hanging  baskets,  vines, 
strings  of  beads  and  bells,  lanterns  of  all 
hues;  there  were  tables,  little  and  big, 
and  lounging  chairs  and  a  hammock  and 
two  canaries.  The  brightest  geraniums 
blossomed  in  small  beds  through  the 
grass,  and  several  long  flower  beds  were 
one  brilliant  mass  of  bloom,  while  giant 
sun-flowers  reared  their  golden  heads  the 
entire  length  of  the  farm. 

It  was  gay,  but  I  had  hoped  to  please 
Beauty. 

"  What  is  that  ?  "  said  the  girl,  straining 
her  head  out  of  the  carriage. 

"  Don't  know,"  said  the  youth,  "  guess 
it's  a  store." 

The  girl  scrutinized  the  scene  as  a 
whole,  and  said  decisively  : 

"  No,  'taint,  Bill  —  it's  a  saloon  !  " 


®l)e  passing  of  tfye  JJeacocks.    139 

That  was  a  cruel  blow !  I  forgot  my 
flowers,  walked  in  slowly  and  sadly  and 
carried  in  two  lanterns  to  store  in  the 
shed  chamber.  I  also  resolved  to  have 
no  more  flower  beds  in  front  of  the 
house,  star  shaped  or  diamond — they 
must  all  be  sodded  over. 

That  opinion  of  my  earnest  efforts  to 
effect  a  renaissance  at  Gooseville — to 
show  how  a  happy  farm  home  should 
look  to  the  passer-by — in  short,  my 
struggle  to  "  live  up  to  "  the  peacocks 
revealed,  as  does  a  lightning  flash  on  a 
dark  night,  much  that  I  had  not  per 
ceived.  I  had  made  as  great  a  mistake 
as  the  farmer  who  abjures  flowers  and 
despises  "fixin'  up." 

The  pendulum  of  emotion  swung  as  far 
back,  and  I  almost  disliked  the  innocent 
cause  of  my  decorative  folly.  I  began  to 
look  over  my  accounts,  to  study  my 
check  books,  to  do  some  big  sums  in  ad 
dition,  and  it  made  me  even  more  de- 


i4°    QUropting  an  &banbone&  .farm. 

pressed.  Result  of  these  mental  exercises 
as  follows  :  Rent,  $40  per  year ;  incidental 
expenses  to  date,  $5,713.85.  Was  there 
any  good  in  this  silly  investment  of 
mine  ?  Well,  if  it  came  to  the  very  worst, 
I  could  kill  the  couple  and  have  a  rare 
dish.  Yet  Horace  did  not  think  its  flesh 
equal  to  an  ordinary  chicken.  He  wrote: 

I  shall  ne'er  prevail 

To  make  our  men  of  taste  a  pullet  choose, 
And  the  gay  peacock  with  its  train  refuse. 
For  the  rare  bird  at  mighty  price  is  sold, 
And  lo  !  what  wonders  from  its  tail  unfold  ! 
But  can  these  whims  a  higher  gusto  raise 
Unless  you  eat  the  plumage  that  you  praise  ? 
Or  do  its  glories  when  'tis  boiled  remain? 
No  ;  'tis  the  unequaled  beauty  of  its  train, 
Deludes  your  eye  and  charms  you  to  the  feast, 
For  hens  and  peacocks  are  alike  in  taste. 

Then  peacocks  have  been  made  useful 
in  a  medicinal  way.  The  doctors  once 
prescribed  peacock  broth  for  pleurisy, 
peacocks'  tongues  for  epilepsy,  peacocks' 
fat  for  colic,  peacocks'  galls  for  weak 
eyes,  peahens'  eggs  for  gout. 


®l)c  passing  of  tlje  peacocks.    141 

It  is  always  darkest   just  before  dawn, 

and   only  a  week    from  that   humiliating 

x      Yv-A' 

Sunday  episode  I  was  called  ^by my  gar-' 
denerjto  look  at  the  dearest  little  brown 
something  that  was  darting  about  in  the 
poultry  yard.  It  was  a  baby  peacock, 
only  one  day  old.  He  got  out  of  the  nest 
in  some  way,  and  preferred  to  take  care 

of  himself.    How  independent,  how  capti-    (^f 

•  ^ 
vating   he  was !     As  not   one  other   egg 

had  hatched,  he  was  lamentably,  des 
perately  alone,  with  dangers  on  every 
side,  "  homeless  and  orphanless."  Some 
thing  on  that  Sabbath  morning  recalled 
Melchizedec,  the  priest  without  father 
or  mother,  of  royal  descent,  and  of  great 
length  of  days.  Earnestly  hoping  for 
longevity  for  this  feathered  mite  of 
princely  birth,  I  called  him  "  Melchizedec." 
I  caught  him  and  was  in  his  toils. 
He  was  a  tiny  tyrant ;  I  was  but  a  slave, 
an  attendant,  a  nurse,  a  night-watcher. 
Completely  under  his  claw  ! 


142    Qlbopting  an  QUwnl»0tte&  farm. 

No  more  work,  no  more  leisure,  no 
more  music  or  tennis ;  my  life  career,  my 
sphere,  was  definitely  settled.  I  was  Kiz- 
zie's  attendant  —  nothing  more.  People 
have  cared  for  rather  odd  pets,  as  the 
leeches  tamed  and  trained  by  Lord  Ers- 
kine ;  others  have  been  deeply  interested 
in  toads,  crickets,  mice,  lizards,  alliga 
tors,  tortoises,  and  monkeys.  Wolsey  was 
on  familiar  terms  with  a  venerable  carp ; 
Clive  owned  a  pet  tortoise;  Sir  John 
Lubbock  contrived  to  win  the  affections 
of  a  Syrian  wasp ;  Charles  Dudley  War 
ner  devoted  an  entire  article  in  the  At 
lantic  Monthly  to  the  praises  of  his  cat 
Calvin ;  but  did  you  ever  hear  of  a  pea 
cock  as  a  household  pet  ? 

As  it  is  the  correct  thing  now  to  lie 
down  all  of  a  summer  afternoon,  hidden 
by  trees,  and  closely  watch  every  move 
ment  of  a  pair  of  little  birds,  or  spend 
hours  by  a  frog  pond  studying  the  slug 
gish  life  there,  and  as  mothers  are 


&l)e  passing  of  tfye  peacocks.    143 

urged  by  scientific  students  to  record 
daily  the  development  of  their  infants 
in  each  apparently  unimportant  matter, 
I  think  I  may  be  excused  for  a  brief 
sketch  of  my  charge,  for  no  mother 
ever  had  a  child  so  precocious,  so  wise, 
so  willful,  so  affectionate,  so  persistent, 
as  Kizzie  at  the  same  age.  Before  he 
was  three  days  old,  he  would  follow  me 
like  a  dog  up  and  down  stairs  and  all 
over  the  house,  walk  behind  me  as  I 
strolled  about  the  grounds,  and  when 
tired,  he  would  cry  and  "  peep,  weep  " 
for  me  to  sit  down.  Then  he  would 
beg  to  be  taken  on  my  lap,  thence  he 
would  proceed  to  my  arm,  then  my 
neck,  where  he  would  peck  and  scream 
and  flutter,  determined  to  nestle  there 
for  a  nap.  My  solicitude  increased  as 
he  lived  on,  and  I  hoped  to  "  raise " 
him.  He  literally  demanded  every  mo 
ment  of  my  time,  my  entire  attention 

during    the    day,    and,    alas  !     at    night 
10 


144    Ql&opting  an  Slbanboneb  ,farm. 

also,  until  I  seemed  to  be  living  a  tragic 
farce ! 

If  put  down  on  carpet  or  matting,  he 
at  once  began  to  pick  up  everything  he 
could  spy  on  the  floor,  and  never  before 
did  I  realize  how  much  could  be  found 
there.  I  had  a  dressmaker  in  the  house, 
and  Kizzie  was  always  going  for  a  dead 
ly  danger — here  a  pin,  there  a  needle, 
just  a  step  away  a  tack  or  a  bit  of 
thread  or  a  bead  of  jet. 

Outdoors  it  was  even  worse.  With 
two  bird  dogs  ready  for  anything  but 
birds,  the  pug  that  had  already  devoured 
all  that  had  come  to  me  of  my  expen 
sive  importations,  a  neighbor's  cat  often 
stealing  over  to  hunt  for  her  dinner,  a 
crisis  seemed  imminent  every  minute. 
Even  his  own  father  would  destroy  him 
if  they  met,  as  the  peacock  allows  no 
possible  rival.  And  Kizzie  kept  so  close 
to  my  heels  that  I  hardly  dared  step.  If 
my  days  were  distracting,  the  nights 


passing  of  tlje  JJeacacks.    145 


were  inexpressibly  awful.  I  supposed  he 
would  be  glad  to  go  to  sleep  in  a  natural 
way  after  a  busy  day.  No,  indeed  !  He 
would  not  stay  in  box  or  basket,  or  any 
where  but  cradled  close  in  my  neck. 
There  he  wished  to  remain,  twittering 
happily,  giving  now  and  then  a  sweet, 
little,  tremulous  trill,  indicative  of  con 
tent,  warmth,  and  drowsiness  ;  if  I  dared 
to  move  ever  so  little,  showing  by  a 
sharp  scratch  from  his  claws  that  he  pre 
ferred  absolute  quiet.  One  night,  when 
all  worn  out,  I  rose  and  put  him  in  a 
hat  box  and  covered  it  closely,  but  his 
piercing  cries  of  distress  and  anger  pre 
vented  the  briefest  nap,  reminding  me  of 
the  old  man  who  said,  "  Yes,  it's  pretty 
dangerous  livin'  anywheres."  I  was  so 
afraid  of  hurting  him  that  I  scarcely 
dared  move.  Each  night  we  had  a  pro 
longed  battle,  but  he  never  gave  in  for 
one  instant  until  he  could  roost  on  my 
outstretched  finger  or  just  under  my  chin. 


146    Qlbopting  an  Qtbanboneb  .farm. 

Then  he  would  settle  down,  the  conflict 
over,  he  as  usual  the  victor,  and  the 
sweet  little  lullaby  would  begin. 

One  night  I  rose  hastily  to  close  the 
windows  in  a  sudden  shower.  Kizzie 
wakened  promptly,  and  actually  followed 
me  out  of  the  room  and  down-stairs. 
Alas !  it  was  not  far  from  his  breakfast 
hour,  for  he  preferred  his  first  meal  at 
four  o'clock  A.  M.  You  see  how  he  in* 
fluenced  me  to  rise  early  and  take  plenty 
of  exercise. 

I  once  heard  of  a  wealthy  Frenchman, 
nervous  and  dyspeptic,  who  was  ordered 
by  his  eccentric  physician  to  buy  a  Bar- 
bary  ostrich  and  imitate  him  as  well  as 
care  for  him.  And  he  was  quickly  cured ! 

On  the  other  hand,  it  is  said  that  ani 
mals  and  birds  grow  to  be  like  those  who 
train  and  pet  them.  Christopher  North 
(John  Wilson)  used  to  carry  a  sparrow  in 
his  coat  pocket.  And  his  friends  averred 
that  the  bird  grew  so  large  and  impress- 


®!)e  {tossing  of  ttye  peacocks.    147 

ive  that  it  seemed  to  be  changing  into  an 
eagle. 

But  Kizzie  was  the  stronger  influence. 
I  really  grew  afraid  of  him,  as  he  liked 
to  watch  my  eyes,  and  once  picked  at 
them,  as  he  always  picked  at  any  shining 
bit. 

What  respect  I  now  feel  for  a  sober, 
steady  -  going,  successful  old  hen,  who 
raises  brood  after  brood  of  downy  dar 
lings  without  mishaps !  Her  instinct  is 
an  inspiration.  Kizzie  liked  to  perch  on 
my  finger  and  catch  flies  for  his  dinner. 
How  solemn,  wise,  and  bewitching  he  did 
look  as  he  snapped  at  and  swallowed  fif 
teen  flies,  uttering  all  the  time  a  satisfied 
little  note,  quite  distinct  from  his  musical 
slumber  song ! 

How  he  enjoyed  lying  on  one  side, 
stretched  out  at  full  length,  to  bask  in 
the  sun,  a  miniature  copy  of  his  magnifi 
cent  father !  Very  careful  was  he  of  his 
personal  appearance,  pruning  and  preen- 


148    &b0pting  an  ^bcmbanefc  farm. 

ing  his  pretty  feathers  many  times  each 
day,  paying  special  attention  to  his  tail — 
not  more  than  an  inch  long — but  what  a 
prophecy  of  the  future  !  As  mothers  care 
most  for  the  most  troublesome  child,  so  I 
grew  daily  more  fond  of  cute  little  Kiz- 
zie,  more  anxious  that  he  should  live. 

I  could  talk  all  day  of  his  funny  ways, 
of  his  fondness  for  me,  of  his  daily  in 
creasing  intelligence,  of  his  hair-breadth 
escapes,  etc. 

The  old  story — the  dear  gazelle  expe 
rience  came  all  too  soon. 

Completely  worn  out  with  my  constant 
vigils,  I  intrusted  him  for  one  night  to  a 
friend  who  assured  me  that  she  was  a 
most  quiet  sleeper,  and  that  he  could  rest 
safely  on  her  fingers.  I  was  too  tired  to 
say  no. 

She  came  to  me  at  daybreak,  with  poor 
Kizzie  dead  in  her  hands.  He  died  like 
Desdemona,  smothered  with  pillows.  All 
I  can  do  in  his  honor  has  been  done  by 


JJassing  of  tl)e  JJeacocks.    149 


this  inadequate  recital  of  his  charms  and 
his  capacity.  After  a  few  days  of  sincere 
grief  I  reflected  philosophically  that  if  he 
had  not  passed  away  I  must  have  gone 
soon,  and  naturally  felt  it  preferable  that 
I  should  be  the  survivor. 

A  skillful  taxidermist  has  preserved  as 
much  of  Kizzie  as  possible  for  me,  and 
he  now  adorns  the  parlor  mantel,  a  weak, 
mute  reminder  of  three  weeks  of  anxiety. 

And  his  parents  — 

The  peahen  died  suddenly  and  mys 
teriously.  There  was  no  apparent  reason 
for  her  demise,  but  the  autopsy,  which 
revealed  a  large  and  irregular  fragment 
of  window  glass  lodged  in  her  gizzard, 
proved  that  she  was  a  victim  of  Beau 
ty's  vanity.  A  friend  who  was  pres 
ent  said,  as  he  tenderly  held  the  glass 
between  thumb  and  finger  :  "  It  is  now  easy 
to  see  through  the  cause  of  her  death; 
under  the  circumstances,  it  would  be  idle 
to  speak  of  it  as  pane-less  !  "  Beauty 


150    Qlfcopting  an  OVbanboneb  farm. 

had  never  seemed  very  devoted  to  her, 
but  he  mourned  her  long  and  sincerely. 
Now  that  she  had  gone  he  appreciated 
her  meek  adoration,  her  altruistic  devo 
tion. 

Another  touch  like  human  nature. 

And  when,  after  a  decent  period  of 
mourning,  another  spouse  was  secured 
for  him  he  refused  to  notice  her  and 
wandered  solitary  and  sad  to  a  neigh 
bor's  fields.  The  new  madam  was  not 
allowed  to  share  the  high  roost  on  the 
elm.  She  was  obliged  to  seek  a  less  ele 
vated  and  airy  dormitory.  His  voice, 
always  distressingly  harsh,  was  now  so 
awful  that  it  was  fascinating.  The  notes 
seemed  cracked  by  grief  or  illness.  At 
last,  growing  feebler,  he  succumbed  to 
some  wasting  malady  and  no  longer 
strutted  about  in  brilliant  pre-eminence 
or  came  to  the  piazza  calling  imperiously 
for  dainties,  but  rested  for  hours  in  some 
quiet  corner.  The  physician  who  was 


{tossing  of  tlje  peacocks.    151 


called  in  prescribed  for  his  liver.  He 
showed  symptoms  of  poisoning,  and  I  be 
gan  to  fear  that  in  his  visit  to  a  neigh 
bor's  potato  fields  he  had  indulged  in 
Paris  green,  possibly  with  suicidal  intent. 
There  was  something  heroic  in  his  way 
of  dying.  No  moans,  no  cries  ;  just  a 
dignified  endurance.  From  the  western 
window  of  the  shed  chamber  where  he 
lay  he  could  see  the  multitude  of  fowls 
below,  in  the  yards  where  he  had  so 
lately  reigned  supreme.  Occasionally, 
with  a  heroic  effort,  he  would  get  on  his 
legs  and  gaze  wistfully  on  the  lively 
crowd  so  unmindful  of  his  wretchedness, 
then  sink  back  exhausted,  reminding  me 
of  some  grand  old  monarch,  statesman, 
or  warrior  looking  for  the  last  time  on 
the  scenes  of  his  former  triumphs.  I 
should  have  named  him  Socrates.  At 
last  he  was  carried  to  a  cool  resting 
place  in  the  deep  grass,  covered  with  pink 
mosquito  netting,  and  one  kind  friend 


152    Qibopting  an  Qlbcmboneb  farm. 

after  another  fanned  him  and  watched 
over  his  last  moments.  After  he  was 
really  dead,  and  Tom  with  tears  rolling 
down  his  face  carried  him  tenderly  away, 
I  woke  from  my  ambitious  dream  and 
felt  verily  guilty  of  aviscide. 

But  for  my  vainglorious  ambition 
Beauty  would  doubtless  be  alive  and 
resplendent ;  his  consort,  modest  hued 
and  devoted,  at  his  side,  and  my 
bank  account  would  have  a  better  show 
ing. 

There  is  a  motto  as  follows,  "  Let  him 
keep  peacock  to  himself,"  derived  in  this 
way : 

When  George  III  had  partly  recovered 
from  one  of  his  attacks,  his  ministers  got 
him  to  read  the  king's  speech,  but  he 
ended  every  sentence  with  the  word  "  pea 
cock." 

The  minister  who  drilled  him  said  that 
"  peacock "  was  an  excellent  word  for 
ending  a  sentence,  only  kings  should  not 


passing  of  tlje  peacocks.    153 


let  subjects  hear  it,  but  should  whisper  it 
softly. 

The  result  was  a  perfect  success;  the 
pause  at  the  close  of  each  sentence  had 
such  a  fine  elocutionary  effect. 

In  future,  when  longing  to  indulge  in 
some  new  display,  yield  to  another  temp 
tation,  let  me  whisper  "  peacock  "  and  be 
saved. 


CHAPTER   X. 

LOOKING    BACK. 

Then  you  seriously  suppose,  doctor,  that  garden 
ing  is  good  for  the  constitution  ? 

I  do.  For  kings,  lords,  and  commons.  Grow 
your  own  cabbages.  Sow  your  own  turnips,  and  if 
you  wish  for  a  gray  head,  cultivate  carrots. 

THOMAS  HOOD. 

CONCEIT  is  not  encouraged  in  the  coun 
try.  Your  level  is  decided  for  you,  and 
the  public  opinion  is  soon  reported  as 
something  you  should  know. 

As  a  witty  spinster  once  remarked : 
"  It's  no  use  to  fib  about  your  age  in 
your  native  village.  Some  old  woman 
always  had  a  calf  born  the  same  night 
you  were !  " 

Jake  Corey  was  refreshingly  frank. 
He  would  give  me  a  quizzical  look,  shift 
his  quid,  and  begin  : 


Cooking  Back.  155 

"  Spent  a  sight  o'  money  on  hens, 
hain't  ye  ?  Wall,  by  next  year  I  guess 
you'll  find  out  whether  ye  want  to  quit 
foolin'  with  hens  or  not.  Now,  my  hens 
doan't  git  no  condition  powder,  nor  sun 
flower  seeds,  nor  no  such  nonsense,  and  I 
ain't  got  no  bone  cutter  nor  fancy  fount 
ains  for  'em;  but  I  let  'em  scratch  for 
themselves  and  have  their  liberty,  and 
mine  look  full  better'n  your'n.  I'll  give 
ye  one  p'int.  You  could  save  a  lot  by  en- 
gagin'  an  old  hoss  that's  got  to  be  killed. 
I'm  allers  looking  round  in  the  fall  of  the 
year  for  some  old  critter  just  ready  to 
drop.  Wait  till  cold  weather,  and  then, 
when  he's  killed,  hang  half  of  him  up  in 
the  hen  house  and  see  how  they'll  pick  at 
it.  It's  the  best  feed  going  for  hens,  and 
makes  'em  lay  right  along.  Doan't  cost 
nothin'  either." 

I  had  been  asked  to  give  a  lecture  in  a 
neighboring  town,  and,  to  change  the 
subject,  inquired  if  he  thought  many 


156    Qlbopting  an  Qlbanboneb  farm. 

would  attend.  Jake  looked  rather  blank, 
took  off  his  cap,  scratched  his  head,  and 
then  said : 

"  I  dunno.  Ef  you  was  a  Beecher  or  a 
Gough  you  could  fill  the  hall,  or  may  be 
ef  your  more  known  like,  and  would  talk 
to  'em  free,  you  might  git  'em,  or  if  you's 
going  to  sing  or  dress  up  to  make  'em 
larf ;  but  as  'tis,  I  dunno."  After  the  ef 
fort  was  over  I  tried  to  sound  him  as  to 
my  success.  He  was  unusually  reticent, 
and  would  only  say :  "  Wall,  the  only 
man  I  heard  speak  on't,  said  'twas  differ 
ent  from  anything  he  ever  heard."  This 
reminded  me  of  a  capital  story  told  me 
by  an  old  family  doctor  many  years  ago. 
It  was  that  sort  of  anecdote  now  out  of 
fashion  with  raconteurs — a  long  preamble, 
many  details,  a  gradual  increase  of  inter 
est,  and  a  vivid  climax,  and  when  told  by 
a  sick  bed  would  sometimes  weary  the 
patient.  A  man  not  especially  well 
known  had  given  a  lecture  in  a  New 


Cooking  J3ack.  157 

Hampshire  town  without  rousing  much 
enthusiasm  in  his  audience,  and  as  he 
rode  away  on  the  top  of  the  stage  coach 
next  morning  he  tried  to  get  some  sort 
of  opinion  from  Jim  Barker,  the  driver. 
After  pumping  in  vain  for  a  compliment 
the  gentleman  inquired :  "  Did  you  hear 
nothing  about  my  lecture  from  any  of 
the  people  ?  I  should  like  very  much  to 
get  some  idea  of  how  it  was  received." 

"Wall,  no,  stranger,  I  can't  say  as  I 
heerd  much.  I  guess  the  folks  was  purty 
well  pleased.  No  one  seemed  to  be  ag'in 
it  but  Square  Lothrop." 

"  And  may  I  ask  what  he  said  ?  " 
"Wall,  I  wouldn't  mind  it,  if  I'se  you, 
what  he  said.  He  says  just  what  he 
thinks — right  out  with  it,  no  matter  who's 
hurt — and  he  usually  gets  the  gist  on't. 
But  I  wouldn't  mind  what  he  said,  the 
public  was  purty  generally  pleased." 
And  the  long  whip  lash  cracks  and  Jim 
shouts,  "  Get  an,  Dandy." 


158    QVbopting  an  Qlbanboneb  .farm. 

"Yes,"  persisted  the  tortured  man; 
"  but  I  do  want  very  much  to  know  what 
Squire  Lothrop's  opinion  was." 

"  Now,  stranger,  I  wouldn't  think  any 
more  about  the  Square.  He's  got  good 
common  sense  and  allers  hits  the  nail  on 
the  head,  but  as  I  said,  you  pleased  'em 
fust  rate." 

"  Yes,  but  I  must  know  what  Squire 
Lothrop  did  say." 

"Wall,  if  you  will  have  it,  he  did  say 
(and  he's  apt  to  get  the  gist  on't)  he  did- 
say  that  he  thought  'twas  awful  shatter  !  " 

Many  epigrammatic  sayings  come  back 
to  me,  and  one  is  too  good  to  be  omitted. 
An  old  woman  was  fiercely  criticising  a 
neighbor  and  ended  in  this  way :  "  Folks 
that  pretend  to  be  somebody,  and  don't 
act  like  nobody,  ain't  anybody  !  " 

Another  woman  reminded  me  of  Mrs. 
Partington.  She  told  blood-curdling  tales 
of  the  positive  reappearance  of  departed 
spirits,  and  when  I  said,  "  Do  you  really 


Cooking  Back.  159 

believe  all  this  ? "  she  replied,  "  Indeed,  I 
do,  and  yet  I'm  not  an  imaginary  woman  !  " 
Her  dog  was  provoked  into  a  conflict 
with  my  setters,  and  she  exclaimed  :  "  Why, 
I  never  saw  him  so  completely  ennervated" 

Then  the  dear  old  lady  who  said  she 
was  a  free  thinker  and  wasn't  ashamed  of 
;t;  guessed  she  knew  as  much  as  the 
minister  'bout  this  world  or  the  next; 
liked  nothing  better  than  to  set  down 
Sunday  afternoons  after  she'd  fed  her 
hens  and  read  Ingersoll.  "What  books 
of  his  have  you  ?  "  I  asked. 

She  handed  me  a  small  paper-bound 
volume  which  did  not  look  like  any  of 
"  Bob's  "  productions.  It  was  a  Guide 
Book  through  Picturesque  Vermont  by 
Ernest  Ingersoll ! 

And  I  must  not  omit  the  queer  sayings 
of  a  simple  -  hearted  hired  man  on  a 
friend's  farm. 

Oh,  for  a  photo  of  him  as  I  saw  him  one 

cold,  aramy  morning  tending  Jason  Kib- 
ii 


160    Qlb0;ptittg  an  Qtban&cmeb  farm. 

by's  dozen  cows.  He  had  on  a  rubber 
coat  and  cap,  but  his  trouser  legs  were 
rolled  above  the  knee  and  he  was  barefoot. 
"  Hannibal,"  I  shouted,  "  you'll  take  cold 
with  your  feet  in  that  wet  grass  !  " 

"Gueth  not,  Marm,"  he  lisped  back 
cheerily.  "  I  never  cared  for  shooth  my- 
thelf." 

He  was  always  shouting  across  the  way 
to  inquire  if  "  thith  wath  hot  enough  or 
cold  enough  to  thute  me?  "  As  if  I  had 
expressed  a  strong  desire  for  phenomenal 
extremes  of  temperature.  One  morning 
he  suddenly  departed.  I  met  him  trudg 
ing  along  with  three  hats  jammed  on  to 
his  head  and  a  rubber  coat  under  his  arm, 
for  'twas  a  fine  day. 

"  Why,  Hanny  !  "  I  exclaimed,  "  where 
are  you  going  in  such  haste  ? " 

"  Mithter  Kibby  told  me  to  go  to  Hali 
fax,  and — I'm  going  !  " 

Next,  the  man  who  was  anxious  to  go 
into  partnership  with  me.  He  would 


Cooking  Sack.  161 

work  my  farm  at  halves,  or  I  could  buy 
his  farm,  cranberry  bog,  and  woodland, 
and  he  would  live  right  on  there  and  run 
that  place  at  halves ;  urged  me  to  buy 
twelve  or  fourteen  cows  cheap  in  the  fall 
and  start  a  milk  route,  he  to  be  the  active 
partner ;  then  he  had  a  chance  to  buy  a 
lot  of  "  essences  "  cheap,  and  if  I'd  pur 
chase  a  peddling-wagon,  he'd  put  in  his 
old  horse,  and  we'd  go  halves  on  that 
business,  or  I  could  buy  up  a  lot  of  calves 
or  young  pigs  and  he'd  feed  'em  and  we'd 
go  halves. 

But  I  will  not  take  you  through  my 
entire  picture-gallery,  as  I  have  two 
good  stories  to  tell  you  before  saying 
good-by. 

Depressing  remarks  have  reached  me 
about  my  "  lakelet,"  which  at  first  was 
ridiculed  by  every  one.  The  struggle  of 
evolution  from  the  "  spring  hole  "  was  se 
vere  and  protracted.  Experts  were  sum 
moned,  their  estimates  of  cost  ranging 


1 62    2U>0j3tittg  an  Qlbanboneb  fatm- 

from  four  hundred  to  one  thousand  dol 
lars,  and  no  one  thought  it  worth  while  to 
touch  it.  It  was  discouraging.  Venerable 
and  enormous  turtles  hid  in  its  muddy 
depths  and  snapped  at  the  legs  of  the 
ducks  as  they  dived,  adding  a  limp  to  the 
waddle ;  frogs  croaked  there  dismally ; 
mosquitoes  made  it  a  camping  ground 
and  head  center ;  big  black  water  snakes 
often  came  to  drink  and  lingered  by  the 
edge;  the  ugly  horn  pout  was  the  only 
fish  that  could  live  there.  Depressing,  in 
contrast  with  my  rosy  dreams !  But  now 
the  little  lake  is  a  charming  reality,  and 
the  boat  is  built  and  launched.  Turtles, 
pout,  lily  roots  as  big  as  small  trees,  and 
two  hundred  loads  of  "alluvial  deposit" 
are  no  longer  "  in  it,"  while  carp  are 
promised  me  by  my  friend  Commissioner 
Blackford.  The  "  Tomtoolan  "  *  is  not 
a  large  body  of  water — one  hundred  and 

*  Named  in  honor  of  the  amateur  engineers. 


Cooking  Back.  163 

fifty  feet  long,  seventy-five  feet  wide — . 
but  it  is  a  delight  to  me  and  has  been 
grossly  traduced  by  ignorant  or  envious 
outsiders.  The  day  after  the  "  Katy-Did  " 
was  christened  (a  flat  -  bottomed  boat, 
painted  prettily  with  blue  and  gold)  I  in 
vited  a  lady  to  try  it  with  me.  Flags 
were  fluttering  from  stem  and  stern.  We 
took  a  gayly  colored  horn  to  toot  as  we 
went,  and  two  dippers  to  bail,  if  neces 
sary.  It  was  not  exactly  "Youth  at  the 
prow  and  Pleasure  at  the  helm,"  but  we 
were  very  jolly  and  not  a  little  proud. 

A  neglected  knot-hole  soon  caused  the 
boat  to  leak  badly.  We  had  made  but 
one  circuit,  when  we  were  obliged  to 
"hug  the  shore"  and  devote  our  entire 
energies  to  bailing.  "  Tip  her  a  little 
more,"  I  cried,  and  the  next  instant  we 
were  both  rolled  into  the  water.  It  was 
an  absurd  experience,  and  after  scram 
bling  out,  our  clothes  so  heavy  we  could 
scarcely  step,  we  vowed,  between  hys- 


164    Qlbopting  an  Qlbanboneb  .farm. 

teric  fits  of  laughter,  to  keep  our  tip-over 
a  profound  secret. 

But  the  next  time  I  went  to  town, 
friends  began  to  smile  mysteriously, 
asked  me  if  I  had  been  out  on  the  lake 
yet,  made  sly  and  jocose  allusions  to  a 
sudden  change  to  Baptistic  faith,  and  if  I 
cordially  invited  them  to  join  me  in  a 
row,  would  declare  a  preference  for  surf 
and  salt  water,  or,  if  pressed,  would  mur 
mur  in  the  meanest  way  something 
about  having  a  bath-tub  at  home. 

It  is  now  nearly  a  year  since  that  little 
adventure,  but  it  is  still  a  subject  of 
mirth,  even  in  other  towns.  A  friend 
calling  yesterday  told  me  the  version  he 
had  just  heard  at  Gillford,  ten  miles 
away! 

"  You  bet  they  have  comical  goings-on 
at  that  woman's  farm  by  the  Gooseville 
depot !  She  got  a  regular  menagerie,  fust 
off — everything  she  see  or  could  hear  of. 
Got  sick  o'  the  circus  bizness,  and  went 


Cooking  Back.  165 

into  potatoes  deep.  They  say  she  was 
actually  up  and  outdoors  by  day-break, 
working  and  worrying  over  the  tater 
bugs! 

"  She's  a  red-headed,  fleshy  woman,  and 
some  of  our  folks  going  by  in  the  cars 
would  tell  of  seeing  her  tramping  up  and 
down  the  long  furrows,  with  half  a  dozen 
boys  hired  to  help  her.  Soon  as  she'd 
killed  most  of  her  own,  a  million  more 
just  traveled  over  from  the  field  opposite 
where  they  had  had  their  own  way  and 
cleaned  out  most  everything.  Then, 
what  the  bugs  spared,  the  long  rains 
rotted.  So  I  hear  she's  giv*  up  pota 
toes. 

"  Then  she  got  sot  on  scooping  out  a 
seven  by  nine  mud  hole  to  make  a  pond, 
and  had  a  boat  built  to  match. 

"  Well,  by  darn,  she  took  a  stout  woman 
in  with  her,  and,  as  I  heerd  it,  that  boat 
just  giv'  one  groan,  and  sunk  right 
down ! " 


1  66    &&0titt    an  &banboneb  farm. 


As  to  the  potatoes,  I  might  never  have 
escaped  from  that  terrific  thralldom,  if  a 
city  friend,  after  hearing  my  woful  ex 
perience,  had  not  inquired  quietly  : 

"  Why  have  potatoes  ?  It's  much  cheaper 
to  buy  all  you  need  !  " 

I  had  been  laboring  under  a  strange 
spell  —  supposed  I  must  plant  potatoes; 
the  relief  is  unspeakable. 

Jennie  June  once  said,  "  The  great  art 
of  life  is  to  eliminate"  I  admired  the 
condensed  wisdom  of  this,  but,  like  expe 
rience,  it  only  serves  to  illume  the  path 
over  which  I  have  passed. 

One  little  incident  occurred  this  spring 
which  is  too  funny  to  withhold.  Among 
the  groceries  ordered  from  Boston  was  a 
piece  of  extra  fine  cheese.  A  connoisseur 
in  cheese  had  advised  me  to  try  it.  It 
recommended  itself  so  strongly  that  I 
placed  it  carefully  under  glass,  in  a  place 
all  by  itself.  It  was  strong  —  strong 
enough  to  sew  buttons  on,  strong  as 


Cooking  Back.  167 


Sampson,  strong  enough  to  walk  away 
alone.  One  warm  morning  it  seemed  to 
have  gained  during  the  night.  Its  pene 
trating,  permeating  power  was  something, 
almost  supernatural.  I  carried  it  from 
one  place  to  another,  each  time  more  re 
mote.  It  would  not  be  lonely  if  segre- 
grated,  doubtless  it  had  ample  social  fa 
cilities  within  itself!  At  last  I  became 
desperate.  "  Ellen,"  I  exclaimed,  "just 
bring  in  that  cheese  and  burn  it.  It 
comes  high,  too  high.  I  can  not  endure 
it."  She  opened  the  top  of  the  range 
and,  as  the  cremation  was  going  on,  I 
continued  my  comments.  "Why,  in  all 
my  life,  I  never  knew  anything  like  it ; 
wherever  I  put  it — in  pantry,  swing  cup 
board,  on  the  cellar  stairs,  in  a  tin  box, 
on  top  of  the  refrigerator — way  out  on 
that — "  Just  then  Tom  opened  the  door 
and  said : 

"  Miss,  your  fertilizer  's  come !  " 

I  have  told  you  of  my  mistakes,  fail- 


i68    QUmjJting  an  Qlbanboncb  farm. 

ures,  losses,  but  have  you  any  idea  of  my 
daily  delights,  my  lasting  gains  ? 

From  invalidism  to  health,  from  mental 
depression  to  exuberant  spirits,  that  is 
the  blessed  record  of  two  years  of  ama 
teur  farming.  What  has  done  this  ?  Ex 
ercise,  actual  hard  work,  digging  in  the 
dirt.  We  are  made  of  dust,  and  the  closer 
our  companionship  with  Mother  Earth  in 
summer  time  the  longer  we  shall  keep 
above  ground.  Then  the  freedom  from 
conventional  restraints  of  dress ;  no  ne 
cessity  for  "  crimps,"  no  need  of  foreign 
hirsute  adornment,  no  dresses  with  tight 
arm  holes  and  trailing  skirts,  no  high- 
heeled  slippers  with  pointed  toes,  but 
comfort,  clear  comfort,  indoors  and  out. 

Plenty  of  rocking  chairs,  lounges  that 
make  one  sleepy  just  to  look  at  them, 
open  fires  in  every  room,  and  nothing  too 
fine  for  the  sun  to  glorify ;  butter,  eggs, 
cream,  vegetables,  poultry — simply  per 
fect,  and  the  rare,  ecstatic  privilege  of 


Cooking  Back.  169 

eating  onions — onions  raw,  boiled,  baked, 
and  fried  at  any  hour  or  all  hours.  I 
said  comfort ;  it  is  luxury  ! 

Dr.  Holmes  says :  "  I  have  seen  respect 
ability  and  amiability  grouped  over  the 
air-tight  stove,  I  have  seen  virtue  and  in 
telligence  hovering  over  the  register,  but 
I  have  never  seen  true  happiness  in  a 
family  circle  where  the  faces  were  not 
illuminated  by  the  blaze  of  an  open  fire 
place."  And  nature  !  I  could  fill  pages 
with  glowing  descriptions  of  Days  Out 
doors.  In  my  own  homely  pasture  I 
have  found  the  dainty  wild  rose,  the  little 
field  strawberries  so  fragrant  and  spicy, 
the  blue  berries  high  and  low,  so  desira 
ble  for  "  pie-fodder,"  and  daisies  and  ferns 
in  abundance,  and,  in  an  adjoining  mead 
ow  by  the  brookside,  the  cardinal  flower 
and  the  blue  gentian.  All  these  simple 
pleasures  seem  better  to  me  than  sitting 
in  heated,  crowded  rooms  listening  to  in 
terminable  music,  or  to  men  or  women 


1  70    &bojjting  an  &banbone&  farm. 


who  never  know  when  to  stop,  or  rush 
ing  round  to  gain  more  information  on 
anything  and  everything  from  Alaska  to 
Zululand,  and  wildly  struggling  to  catch 
up  with  "social  duties." 

City  friends,  looking  at  the  other  side 
of  the  shield,  marvel  at  my  contentment, 
and  regard  me  as  buried  alive.  But  when 
I  go  back  for  a  short  time  to  the  old  life 
I  am  fairly  homesick.  I  miss  my  daily 
visit  to  the  cows  and  the  frolic  with  the 
dogs.  All  that  has  been  unpleasant  fades 
like  a  dream. 

I  think  of  the  delicious  morning  hours 
on  the  broad  vine-covered  piazza,  the 
evenings  with  their  starry  splendor  or 
witching  moonlight,  the  nights  of  sound 
sleep  and  refreshing  rest,  the  all-day 
picnics,  the  jolly  drives  with  friends  as 
charmed  with  country  life  as  myself,  and  I 
weary  of  social  functions  and  overpower 
ing  intellectual  privileges,  and  every  oth 
er  advantage  of  the  metropolis,  and  long 


Cooking  Back.  171 


to  migrate  once    more  from  Gotham  to 
Gooseville. 

"  Dear  country  life  of  child  and  man  ! 

For  both  the  best,  the  strongest, 
That  with  the  earliest  race  began, 

And  hast  outlived  the  longest, 
Their  cities  perished  long  ago  ; 
Who  the  first  farmers  were  we  know." 


THE    END. 


D.  APPLETON  &  CO.'S  PUBLICATIONS. 

HANDY  VOLUMES   OF  FICTION. 
Each,  izmo,  flexible  cloth,  with  special  design,  75  cents. 

*J^HE   TRANSLATION  OF  A    SAVAGE.     By  GIL- 
•*•     BERT  PARKER. 

"  To  tell  such  a  story  convincingly  a  man  must  have  what  I  call  the 
rarest  of  literary  gifts—  the  power  to  condense.  Of  the  good  feeling  and 
healthy  wisdom  of  this  little  tale  others  no  doubt  have  spoken  and  will 
speak.  But  I  have  chosen  this  technical  quality  for  praise,  because  in  this 
I  think  Mr.  Parker  has  made  the  furthest  advance  on  his  previous  work. 
Indeed,  in  workmanship  he  seems  to  be  improving  faster  than  any  of  the 
younger  novelists."  —  A.  T.  QUILLER-COUCH,  in  the  London  Spectator. 


FAIENCE    VIOLIN.    By  CHAMPFLEURY. 
•*•      Translated  by  W.  H.  BISHOP. 

"  The  style  is  happy  throughout,  the  humorous  parts  being  well  cal 
culated  to  bring  smiles,  while  we  can  hardly  restrain  our  tears  when  the 
poor  enthusiast  goes  to  excesses  that  have  a  touch  of  pathos."  —  Albany 
Times-  Union. 


T 


'RUE  RICHES.     By  FRANCOIS  COPPEE. 


"  Delicate  as  an  apple  blossom,  with  its  limp  cover  of  pale  green  and  hs 
stalk  of  golden-rod,  is  this  little  volume  containing  two  stories  by  Francois 
Coppee.  The  tales  are  charmingly  told,  and  their  setting  is  an  artistic 
delight. '  '—Philadelphia  Bulletin. 

"The  author  scarcely  had  a  thought  of  sermonizing  his  readers,  but 
each  of  these  little  stories  presents  a  moral  not  easily  overlooked,  and 
whose  influence  lingers  with  those  who  read  them." — Baltimore  American. 

A    TRUTHFUL  WOMAN  IN  SOUTHERN  CALL 
•^    FORNIA.    By  KATE  SANBORN,  author  of  "Adopting 
an  Abandoned  Farm,"  etc. 

"  The  veracious  writer  considers  the  Pros  of  the  '  glorious  climate '  of 
California,  and  then  she  gives  the  cons.  Decidedly  the  ayes  have  it.  ... 
The  book  is  sprightly  and  amiably  entertaining.  The  descriptions  have 
the  true  Sanborn  touch  of  vitality  and  humor." — Philadelphia  Ledger. 

A  BORDER  LEANDER.  By  HOWARD  SEELY,  au- 
•**  thor  of  "A  Nymph  of  the  West,"  etc. 

"  We  confess  to  a  great  liking  for  the  tale  Mr.  Seely  tells.  .  .  .  There 
are  pecks  of  trouble  ere  the  devoted  lovers  secure  the  tying  of  their  love- 
knot,  and  Mr.  Seely  describes  them  all  with  a  Texan  flavor  that  is  refresh 
ing."—  New  York  Times. 

"A  swift,  gay,  dramatic  little  tale,  which  at  once  takes  captive 
the  reader's  sympathy  and  holds  it  without  difficulty  to  the  end."— 
Charleston  News  and  Courier. 


New  York :    D.   APPLETON  &  CO.,  72  Fifth  Avenue. 


>.  APPLETON  &  CO.'S  PUBLICATIONS. 
HANDY  VOLUMES  OF  FICTION. 

£  A  T  PISGAH.    By  EDWIN  W.  SANBORN. 

A  most  amusing  extravaganza." — The  Critic. 
•R.  FORTNER'S  MARITAL  CLAIMS,  and  Other 
Stories.    By  RICHARD  MALCOLM  JOHNSTON. 

"  When  the  last  story  is  finished  we  feel,  in  imitation  of  Oliver  Twist, 
like  asking  for  mote."— Put  lie  Opinion. 

f^RAMERC  Y  PARK.    A  Story  of  New  York.     By  JOHN 
*-*"      SEYMOUR  WOOD,  author  of  "  An  Old  Beau,"  etc. 

"A  realistic  story  of  New  York  life,  vividly  drawn,  full  of  brilliant 
sketches." — Boston  Advertiser. 

A  TALE  OF  TWENTY-FIVE  HOURS.  By  BRAN- 
•*•*  DER  MATTHEWS  and  GEORGE  H.  JESSOP. 

"  The  reader  finds  himself  in  the  midst  of  tragedy ;  but  it  is  tragedy  end 
ing  in  comedy.  The  story  is  exceptionally  well  told." — Boston  Traveller. 

LITTLE  NORSK  ;  or,  01'  Pap's  Flaxen.    By  HAM- 
LIN  GARLAND,  author  of  "  Main  Traveled  Roads,"  etc. 

"There  is  nothing  in  story-telling  literature  to  excel  the  naturalness, 
pathos,  humor,  and  homelike  interest  with  which  the  little  heroine's  develop 
ment  is  traced." — Brooklyn  Eagle. 

0  URMA LIN' S  TIME  CHE Q  UES.    By  F.  ANSTEY, 

author  of  "  Vice  Versa,"  "  The  Giant's  Robe,"  etc. 
'  Each  cheque  is  good  for  several  laughs."— New  York  Herald. 

ROM  SHADOW   TO   SUNLIGHT.     By  the  MAR- 

QUIS  OF  LORNE. 
"  In  these  days  of  princely  criticism — that  is  to  say,  criticism  of  princes 
— it  is  refreshing  to  meet  a  really  good  bit  of  aristocratic  literary  work,  al 
beit  the  author  is  only  a  prince-in-law." — Chicago  Tribune. 

ADOPTING  AN  ABANDONED  FARM-  By  KATE 
•^  SANBORN. 

"A  sunny,  pungent,  humorous  sketch." — Chicago  Times. 
QN   THE  LAKE   OF  LUCERNE,  and  Other  Stories. 
^      By  BEATRICE  WIIITBY. 

"  The  stories  are  pleasantly  told  in  light  and  delicate  vein,  and  are  sure 
to  be  acceptable  to  the  friends  Miss  Whitby  has  already  made  on  this  side 
of  the  Atlantic."— Philadelphia  Bulletin. 

Each,  i6mo,  boards,  with  specially  designed  cover,  50  cents. 
New  York  :  D.  APPLETON  &  CO,  72  Fifth  Avenue. 

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